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THE    WORKS    OF 

GEORGE    ELIOT 

IN    TWENTY   VOLUMES 

LIMITED     TO    ONE     THOUSAND 
i  REGISTERED  SETS,  OF  WJ^ICH 
THIS    IS    NUMBER ;...:-... v> 


f 


THE    RECTOR   AND    HIS    MOTHER 


N  E  W 


^^  There,  Dauphin,  teU  me  rc^hat   that  isl'^^'^mys  this 

magiiijicent  old  lady,  as  she  deposits  her  queen  very 

quietly 

(Page  76) 


THE   WORKS   OF   GEORGE   ELIOT 

VOLUME   ONE 


ADAM     BEDE 


Part  I. 


© 


NEW    YORK 
THE    JENSON    SOCIETY 

MCMX 


Thb  University  Press,  Cambridge,  Mass.,  U.S.A. 


YRL 


L,'  .-■ 


Contents 


BOOK   ONE 

Chapter  Page 

I.  The  Workshop 1 

II.  The  Preaching 14 

III.  After  the  Preaching .  43 

IV.  Home  and  its  Sorrows 52 

V.  The  Rector 74 

VI.  The  Hall  Farm 99 

VII.  The  Dairy 117 

VIII.  A  Vocation 125 

IX.  Hetty's  World 138 

X.  Dinah  Visits  Lisbeth 149 

XI.  In  the  Cottage 167 

XII.  In  the  Wood 180 

XIII.  Evening  in  the  Wood 197 

XIV.  The  Return  Home 205 

XV.  The  Two  Bed-Chambers 218 

XVI.  Links 238 


BOOK  TWO 

I.   In  Which  the  Story  Pauses  a  Little  .     .  258 

II.   Church 272 

III.  Adam  on  a  Working  Day 305 

IV.  Adam  Visits  the  Hall-Farm 315 

\'.   Night-School  and  Schoolmaster   ....  841 


CONTENTS 


BOOK  THREE 

CnxTOOi  Page 

I.    Going  to  the  Birthday  Feast     ....  364 

II.    DmNER-TiME 380 

III.  The  Health-Drinking 388 

IV.  The  Games 400 

V.   The  Dance 412 


^J4:' 


Illustrations 


"There,  Dauphin,  tell  me  what  that  is!"  says  this 
magnificent  old  lady,  as  she  deposits  her  queen 
very  quietly Frontispiece 

Hetty  stole  a  half-shy,  half-coquettish  glance  at  him 
as  she  said,  "Yes,  thank  you,  sir"    .     .     .     Page  122 


Adam  Bede 


BoDfe  €)ne 

CHAPTER  I 

THE      WORKSHOP 

WITH  a  single  drop  of  ink  for  a  mirror, 
the  Egyptian  sorcerer  undertakes  to 
reveal  to  any  chance  comer  far-reach- 
ing visions  of  the  past.  This  is  what  I  under- 
take to  do  for  you,  reader.  With  this  drop  of 
ink  at  the  end  of  my  pen,  I  will  show  you  the 
roomy  workshop  of  Mr.  Jonathan  Burge,  car- 
penter and  builder,  in  the  village  of  Hayslope, 
as  it  appeared  on  the  eighteenth  of  June,  in  the 
year  of  our  Lord  1799. 

The  afternoon  sun  was  warm  on  the  five  work- 
men there,  busy  upon  doors  and  window-frames 
and  wainscoting.  A  scent  of  pine- wood  from  a 
tent-like  pile  of  planks  outside  the  open  door 
mingled  itself  with  the  scent  of  the  elder- bushes 
which  were  spreading  their  summer  snow  close 
to  the  open  window  opposite;  the  slanting  sun- 
beams snone  through  the  transparent  shavings 
that  flew  before  the  steady  plane,  and  lit  up  the 
fine  grain  of  the  oak  panelling  which  stood 
propped  against  the  wall.  On  a  heap  of  those 
soft  shavings  a  rough  gray  shepherd- dog  had 

VOL.  I— 1 


2  ADAM  BEDE 

made  himself  a  pleasant  bed,  and  was  lying  with 
his  nose  between  his  fore- paws,  occasionally 
wrinkling  his  brows  to  cast  a  glance  at  the  tallest 
of  the  five  workmen,  who  was  carving  a  shield 
in  the  centre  of  a  wooden  mantelpiece.  It  was 
to  this  workman  that  the  strong  barytone  be- 
longed which  was  heard  above  the  sound  of 
plane  and  hammer,  singing,  — 

"Awake,  my  soul,  and  with  the  sun 
Thy  daily  stage  of  duty  run  ; 
Shake  off  dull  sloth  ..." 

Here  some  measurement  was  to  be  taken  which 
required  more  concentrated  attention,  and  the 
sonorous  voice  subsided  into  a  low  whistle;  but 
it  presently  broke  out  again  with  renewed 
vigour,  — 

''Let  all  thy  converse  be  sincere. 
Thy  conscience  as  the  noonday  clear." 

Such  a  voice  could  only  come  from  a  broad 
chest,  and  the  broad  chest  belonged  to  a  large- 
boned  muscular  man  nearly  six  feet  high,  with 
a  back  so  flat  and  a  head  so  well  poised  that 
when  he  drew  himself  up  to  take  a  more  distant 
survey  of  his  work,  he  had  the  air  of  a  soldier 
standing  at  ease.  The  sleeve  rolled  up  above 
the  elbow  showed  an  arm  that  was  likely  to  win 
the  prize  for  feats  of  strength;  yet  the  long 
supple  hand,  with  its  broad  finger-tips,  looked 
ready  for  works  of  skill.  In  his  tall  stalwart- 
ness  Adam  Bede  was  a  Saxon,  and  justified 
his  name;  but  the  jet-black  hair,  made  the  more 
noticeable  by  its  contrast  with  the  light  paper 
cap,  and  the  keen  glance  of  the  dark  eyes  that 
shone  from  under  strongly  marked,  prominent. 


THE   WORKSHOP  3 

and  mobile  eyebrows,  indicated  a  mixture  of 
Celtic  blood.  The  face  was  large  and  roughly 
hewn,  and  when  in  repose  had  no  other  beauty 
than  such  as  belongs  to  an  expression  of  good- 
humoured,  honest  intelligence. 

It  is  clear  at  a  glance  that  the  next  workman 
is  Adam's  brother.  He  is  nearly  as  tall ;  he  has 
the  same  type  of  features,  the  same  hue  of  hair 
and  complexion;  but  the  strength  of  the  family 
likeness  seems  only  to  render  more  conspicuous 
the  remarkable  difference  of  expression  both  in 
form  and  face.  Seth's  broad  shoulders  have  a 
slight  stoop;  his  eyes  are  gray;  his  eyebrows 
have  less  prominence  and  more  repose  than  his 
brother's ;  and  his  glance,  instead  of  being  keen, 
is  <^onfiding  and  benignant.  He  has  thrown  off 
his  paper  cap,  and  you  see  that  his  hair  is  not 
thick  and  straight,  like  Adam's,  but  thin  and 
wavy,  allowing  you  to  discern  the  exact  con- 
tour of  a  coronal  arch  that  predominates  very 
decidedly  over  the  brow. 

The  idle  tramps  always  felt  sure  they  could 
get  a  copper  from  Seth ;  they  scarcely  ever  spoke 
to  Adam. 

The  concert  of  the  tools  and  Adam's  voice 
was  at  last  broken  by  Seth,  who,  lifting  the  door 
at  which  he  had  been  working  intently,  placed 
it  against  the  wall,  and  said,  — 

"There!  I've  finished  my  door  to-day,  any- 
how." 

The  workmen  all  looked  up.  Jim  Salt,  a 
burly  red-haired  man,  known  as  Sandy  Jim, 
paused  from  his  planing;  and  Adam  said  to 
Seth,  with  a  sharp  glance  of  surprise,  — 

"  What !  dost  think  thee  'st  finished  the  door .?  " 


4  ADAM  BEDE 

"Ay,  sure,"  said  Seth,  with  answering  sur- 
prise;  "what's  a- wanting  to  't?" 

A  loud  roar  of  laughter  from  the  other  three 
workmen  made  Seth  look  round  confusedly. 
Adam  did  not  join  in  the  laughter,  but  there 
was  a  slight  smile  on  his  face  as  he  said,  in  a 
gentler  tone  than  before,  — 

"Why,  thee'st  forgot  the  panels." 

The  laughter  burst  out  afresh  as  Seth  clapped 
his  hands  to  his  head,  and  coloured  over  brow 
and  crown. 

"Hoorray!"  shouted  a  small  lithe  fellow, 
called  Wiry  Ben,  running  forward  and  seizing 
the  door.  "We'll  hang  up  th'  door  at  fur  end 
o'  th'  shop,  an'  write  on't  *Seth  Bede,  the 
Methody,  his  work.'  Here,  Jim,  lend's  hould 
o'  th'  red- pot." 

"Nonsense!"  said  Adam.  "Let  it  alone, 
Ben  Cranage.  You'll  mayhap  be  making  such 
a  slip  yourself  some  day;  you'll  laugh  o'  th' 
other  side  o'  your  mouth  then." 

"Catch  me  at  it,  Adam!  It'll  be  a  ^ood 
while  afore  my  head's  full  o'  th'  Methodies," 
said  Ben. 

"Nay,  but  it's  often  full  o'  drink;  and  that's 
worse." 

Ben,  however,  had  now  got  the  "red-pot"  in 
his  hand,  and  was  about  to  begin  writing  his 
inscription,  making,  by  way  of  preliminary,  an 
imaginary  *S  in  the  air. 

"Let  it  alone,  will  you.^"  Adam  called  out, 
laying  down  his  tools,  striding  up  to  Ben,  and 
seizing  his  right  shoulder.  "Let  it  alone,  or 
I'll  shake  the  soul  out  o'  your  body!" 

Ben  shook  in  Adam's  iron  grasp;   but,  like  a 


THE   WORKSHOP  5 

plucky  small  man  as  he  was,  he  did  n't  mean  to 
give  in.  With  his  left  hand  he  snatched  the 
brush  from  his  powerless  right,  and  made  a 
movement  as  if  he  would  perform  the  feat  of 
writing  with  his  left.  In  a  moment  Adam 
turned  him  round,  seized  his  other  shoulder, 
and  pushing  him  along,  pinned  him  against 
the  wall.     But  now  Seth  spoke. 

"Let  be,  Addy,  let  be.  Ben  will  be  joking. 
Why,  he's  i'  the  right  to  laugh  at  me,  —  I 
canna  help   laughing   at   myself." 

"I  shan't  loose  him  till  he  promises  to  let  the 
door  alone,"  said  Adam. 

"  Come,  Ben,  lad,"  said  Seth,  in  a  persuasive 
tone,  "don't  let's  have  a  quarrel  about  it.  You 
know  Adam  will  have  his  way.  You  may's  well 
try  to  turn  a  wagon  in  a  narrow  lane.  Say 
you'll  leave  the  door  alone,  and  make  an  end 
on  t. 

"I  binna  frighted  at  Adam,"  said  Ben;  "but 
I  donna  mind  sayin'  as  I'll  let  't  alone  at  your 
askin',  Seth." 

"Come,  that's  wise  of  you,  Ben,"  said  Adam, 
laughing,  and  relaxing  his  grasp. 

They  all  returned  to  their  work  now;  but 
Wiry  Ben,  having  had  the  worst  in  the  bodily 
contest,  was  bent  on  retrieving  that  humiliation 
by  a  success  in  sarcasm. 

"Which  was  ye  thinkin'  on,  Seth,"  he  began, 
—  "  the  pretty  parson's  face  or  her  sarmunt, 
when  ye  forgot  the  panels.^" 

"Come  and  hear  her,  Ben,"  said  Seth,  good- 
humouredly;  "she's  going  to  preach  on  the 
Green  to-night.  Happen  ye'd  get  something  to 
think  on  yourself  then,  instead  o'  those  wicked 


6  ADAM  BEDE 

songs  you're  so  fond  on.  Ye  might  get  religion, 
and  that  'ud  be  the  best  day's  earnings  y'  ever 
made." 

"All  i'  good  time  for  that,  Seth;  I'll  think 
about  that  when  I'm  a-goin'  to  settle  i'  life; 
bachelors  does  n't  want  such  heavy  earnin's. 
Happen  I  shall  do  the  coortin'  an'  the  religion 
both  together,  as  ye  do,  Seth;  but  ye  wouldna 
ha'  me  get  converted,  an'  chop  in  atween  ye  an' 
the  pretty  preacher,  an'  carry  her  aff  .'^" 

"No  fear  o'  that,  Ben;  she's  neither  for  you 
nor  for  me  to  win,  I  doubt.  Only  you  come 
and  hear  her,  and  you  won't  speak  lightly  on 
her  again." 

"Well,  I'n  half  a  mind  t'  ha'  a  look  at  her 
to-night,  if  there  is  n't  good  company  at  th' 
Holly  Bush.  What '11  she  take  for  her  text.? 
Happen  ye  can  tell  me,  Seth,  if  so  be  as  I 
shouldna  come  up  i'  time  for  't.  W^ill  't  be. 
What  come  ye  out  for  to  see  ?  A  prophetess  ? 
Yea,  I  say  unto  you,  and  more  than  a  prophet- 
ess, —  a  uncommon  pretty  young  woman." 

"Come,  Ben,"  said  Adam,  rather  sternly, 
"you  let  the  words  o'  the  Bible  alone;  you're 
going  too  far  now." 

"What!  are  ye  a-turnin'  roun',  Adam.?  I 
thought  ye  war  dead  again  th'  women  preachin', 
a  while  agoo.?" 

"Nay,  I'm  not  turnin'  noway.  I  said  nought 
about  the  women  preachin':  I  said,  You  let 
the  Bible  alone.  You've  got  a  jest-book,  han't 
you,  as  you  're  rare  and  proud  on  ?  Keep  your 
dirty  fingers  to  that." 

"Why,  y'  are  gettin'  as  big  a  saint  as  Seth. 
Y'  are  goin'  to  th'  preachin'  to-night,  I  should 


THE   WORKSHOP  7 

think.  Ye '11  do  finely  t'  lead  the  singin'.  But 
I  don'  know  what  Parson  Irwine  'ull  say  at  his 
gran'  favright  Adam  Bede  a-turnin'  Methody." 

"Never  do  you  bother  yourself  about  me, 
Ben.  I'm  not  a-going  to  turn  Methodist  any 
more  nor  you  are,  —  though  it's  like  enough 
you'll  turn  to  something  worse.  Mester  Ir- 
wine's  got  more  sense  nor  to  meddle  wi'  people's 
doing  as  they  like  in  religion.  That's  between 
themselves  and  God,  as  he's  said  to  me  many 
a  time." 

"Ay,  ay;  but  he's  none  so  fond  o'  your  dis- 
senters, for  all  that." 

"Maybe;  I'm  none  so  fond  o'  Josh  Tod's 
thick  ale,  but  I  don't  hinder  you  from  making 
a  fool  o' yourself  wi'  't." 

There  was  a  laugh  at  this  thrust  of  Adam's; 
but  Seth  said  very  seriously,  — 

"Nay,  nay,  Addy,  thee  mustna  say  as  any- 
body's religion's  like  thick  ale.  Thee  dostna 
believe  but  what  the  dissenters  and  the  Metho- 
dists have  got  the  root  o'  the  matter  as  well  as 
the  church  folks." 

"Nay,  Seth,  lad;  I'm  not  for  laughing  at 
no  man's  religion.  Let  'em  follow  their  con- 
sciences, that's  all.  Only  I  think  it  'ud  be  bet- 
ter if  their  consciences  'ud  let  'em  stay  quiet  i' 
the  church,  —  there's  a  deal  to  be  learnt  there. 
And  there's  such  a  thing  as  being  over-speritial; 
we  must  have  something  beside  Gospel  i'  this 
world.  Look  at  the  canals,  an'  th'  aqueducs, 
an'  th'  coal-pit  engines,  and  Arkwright's  mills 
there  at  Cromford;  a  man  must  learn  summat 
beside  Gospel  to  make  them  things,  I  reckon. 
But  t'  hear  some  o'  them  preachers,  you  'd  think 


8  ADAM  BEDE 

as  a  man  must  be  doing  nothing  all's  life  but 
shutting  's  eyes  and  looking  what's  a-going  on 
inside  him.  I  know  a  man  must  have  the  love 
o'  God  in  his  soul,  and  the  Bible's  God's  word. 
But  what  does  the  Bible  say?  Why,  it  says 
as  God  put  his  sperrit  into  the  workman  as 
built  the  tabernacle,  to  make  him  do  all  the 
carved  work  and  things  as  wanted  a  nice  hand. 
And  this  is  my  way  o'  looking  at  it:  there's  the 
sperrit  o'  God  in  all  things  and  all  times,  — 
week-day  as  well  as  Sunday,  —  and  i'  the  great 
works  and  inventions,  and  i'  the  figuring  and 
the  mechanics.  And  God  helps  us  with  our 
head- pieces  and  our  hands  as  well  as  with 
our  souls;  and  if  a  man  does  bits  o'  jobs  out 
o'  working  hours,  —  builds  a  oven  for's  wife 
to  save  her  from  going  to  the  bakehouse,  or 
scrats  at  his  bit  o'  garden  and  makes  two 
potatoes  grow  istead  o'  one,  —  he's  doing  more 
good,  and  he's  just  as  near  to  God,  as  if  he 
was  running  after  some  preacher  and  a- praying 
and  a-groaning." 

"Well  done,  Adam!"  said  Sandy  Jim,  who 
had  paused  from  his  planing  to  shift  his  planks 
while  Adam  was  speaking;  "that's  the  best  sar- 
munt  I've  beared  this  long  while.  By  th'  same 
token,  my  wife's  been  a-plaguin'  on  me  to  build 
her  a  oven  this  twelvemont." 

"There's  reason  in  what  thee  say'st,  Adam," 
observed  Seth,  gravely.  "But  thee  know'st  thy- 
self as  it's  hearing  the  preachers  thee  find'st  so 
much  fault  with  has  turned  many  an  idle  fel- 
low into  an  industrious  un.  It's  the  preacher  as 
empties  th'  alehouse;  and  if  a  man  gets  religion, 
he'll  do  his  work  none  the  worse  for  that." 


THE   WORKSHOP  9 

"On'y  he'll  lave  the  panels  out  o'  th'  doors 
sometimes,  eh,  Seth?"  said  Wiry  Ben. 

"Ah,  Ben,  you've  got  a  joke  again'  me  as '11 
last  you  your  life.  But  it  isna  religion  as  was 
i'  fault  there:  it  was  Seth  Bede,  as  was  allays 
a  wool-gathering  chap;  and  religion  hasna 
cured  him,  the  more's  the  pity." 

"Ne'er  heed  me,  Seth,"  said  Wiry  Ben. 
"  Y'  are  a  downright  good- hearted  chap,  panels 
or  no  panels ;  an'  ye  donna  set  up  your  bristles 
at  every  bit  o'  fun,  like  some  o'  your  kin,  as  is 
mayhap  cliverer." 

"Seth,  lad,"  said  Adam,  taking  no  notice  of 
the  sarcasm  against  himself,  "  thee  mustna  take 
me  unkind.  I  wasna  driving  at  thee  in  what  I 
said  just  now.  Some's  got  one  way  o'  looking 
at  things,  and  some's  got  another." 

"Nay,  nay,  Addy,  thee  mean'st  me  no  un- 
kindness,"  said  Seth;  "I  know  that  well  enough. 
Thee't  like  thy  dog  Gyp,  —  thee  bark'st  at  me 
sometimes,  but  thee  allays  lick'st  my  hand 
after." 

All  hands  worked  on  in  silence  for  some  min- 
utes, until  the  church  clock  began  to  strike  six. 
Before  the  first  stroke  had  died  away,  Sandy 
Jim  had  loosed  his  plane  and  was  reaching  his 
jacket;  Wiry  Ben  had  left  a  screw  half  driven 
in,  and  thrown  his  screw-driver  into  his  tool- 
basket;  Mum  Taft,  who,  true  to  his  name,  had 
kept  silence  throughout  the  previous  conversa- 
tion, had  flung  down  his  hammer  as  he  was  in 
the  act  of  lifting  it;  and  Seth,  too,  had  straight- 
ened his  back,  and  was  putting  out  his  hand 
towards  his  paper  cap.  Adam  alone  had  gone 
on  with  his  work  as  if  nothing  had  happened. 


10  ADAM   BEDE 

But  observing  the  cessation  of  the  tools,  he 
looked  up,  and  said,  in  a  tone  of  indignation,  — 

"  Look  there,  now !  I  can't  abide  to  see  men 
throw  away  their  tools  i'  that  way,  the  minute 
the  clock  begins  to  strike,  as  if  they  took  no 
pleasure  i'  their  work,  and  was  afraid  o'  doing 
a  stroke  too  much." 

Seth  looked  a  little  conscious,  and  began  to 
be  slower  in  his  preparations  for  going;  but 
Mum  Taft  broke  silence,  and  said,  — 

"Ay,  ay,  Adam,  lad,  ye  talk  like  a  young  un. 
When  y'  are  six- an' -forty  like  me,  istid  o'  six- 
an'- twenty,  ye  wonna  be  so  flush  o'  workin'  for 
nought." 

"  Nonsense  !  "  said  Adam,  still  wrathful; 
"what's  age  got  to  do  with  it,  I  wonder.^  Ye 
arena  getting  stiff  yet,  I  reckon.  I  hate  to  see 
a  man's  arms  drop  down  as  if  he  was  shot,  be- 
fore the  clock's  fairly  struck,  just  as  if  he'd 
never  a  bit  o'  pride  and  delight  in  's  work. 
The  very  grindstone  'ull  go  on  turning  a  bit 
after  you  loose  it." 

" Bodderation,  Adam!"  exclaimed  Wiry  Ben; 
"  lave  a  chap  aloon,  will  'ee  ?  Ye  war  a-finding 
faut  wi'  preachers  awhile  agoo,  —  y'  are  fond 
enough  o'  preachin'  yoursen.  Ye  may  like  work 
better  nor  play,  but  I  like  play  better  nor  work; 
that  '11  'commodate  ye,  —  it  laves  ye  th'  more 
to  do." 

With  this  exit  speech,  which  he  considered 
effective.  Wiry  Ben  shouldered  his  basket  and 
left  the  workshop,  quickly  followed  by  Mum 
Taft  and  Sandy  Jim.  Seth  lingered,  and 
looked  wistfully  at  Adam,  as  if  he  expected 
him  to  say  something. 


THE  WORKSHOP  11 

"Shalt  go  home  before  thee  go'st  to  the 
preaching?"  Adam  asked,  looking  up. 

"Nay;  I've  got  my  hat  and  things  at  Will 
Maskery's.  I  shan't  be  home  before  going  for 
ten.  I'll  happen  see  Dinah  Morris  safe  home, 
if  she's  willmg.  There's  nobody  comes  with 
her  from  Poyser's,  thee  know'st." 

"Then  I'll  tell  mother  not  to  look  for  thee," 
said   Adam. 

"Thee  artna  going  to  Poyser's  thyself  to- 
night.''" said  Seth,  rather  timidly,  as  he  turned 
to  leave  the  workshop. 

"Nay,  I  'm  going  to  th'  school." 

Hitherto  Gyp  had  kept  his  comfortable  bed, 
only  lifting  up  his  head  and  watching  Adam 
more  closely  as  he  noticed  the  other  workmen 
departing.  But  no  sooner  did  Adam  put  his 
ruler  in  his  pocket,  and  begin  to  twist  his  apron 
round  his  waist,  than  Gyp  ran  forward  and 
looked  up  in  his  master's  face  with  patient  ex- 
pectation. If  Gyp  had  had  a  tail,  he  would 
doubtless  have  wagged  it;  but  being  destitute 
of  that  vehicle  for  his  emotions,  he  was,  like 
many  other  worthy  personages,  destined  to 
appear  more  phlegmatic  than  Nature  had 
made  him. 

"What!  art  ready  for  the  basket,  eh,  Gyp.^" 
said  Adam,  with  the  same  gentle  modulation  of 
voice  as  when  he  spoke  to  Seth. 

Gyp  jumped,  and  gave  a  short  bark,  as  much 
as  to  say,  "Of  course."  Poor  fellow!  he  had 
not  a  great  range  of  expression. 

The  basket  was  the  one  which  on  workdays 
held  Adam's  and  Seth's  dinner;  and  no  official, 
walking  in  procession,  could  look  more  reso- 


n  ADAM  BEDE 

lutely  unconscious  of  all  acquaintances  than  Gyp 
with  his  basket,  trotting  at  his  master's  heels. 

On  leaving  the  workshop  Adam  locked  the 
door,  took  the  key  out,  and  carried  it  to  the 
house  on  the  other  side  of  the  woodyard.  It 
was  a  low  house,  with  smooth  gray  thatch  and 
buff  walls,  looking  pleasant  and  mellow  in  the 
evening  light.  The  leaded  windows  were  bright 
and  speckless,  and  the  door-stone  was  as  clean 
as  a  white  boulder  at  ebb  tide.  On  the  door- 
stone  stood  a  clean  old  woman,  in  a  dark- striped 
linen  gown,  a  red  kerchief,  and  a  linen  cap,  talk- 
ing to  some  speckled  fowls  which  appeared  to 
have  been  drawn  towards  her  by  an  illusory 
expectation  of  cold  potatoes  or  barley.  The 
old  woman's  sight  seemed  to  be  dim,  for  she 
did  not  recognize  Adam  till  he  said,  — 

"Here's  the  key,  Dolly;  lay  it  down  for  me 
in  the  house,  will  you.'^" 

"Ay,  sure;  but  wunna  ye  come  in,  Adam? 
Miss  Mary's  i'  th'  house,  and  Mester  Burge  'ull 
be  back  anon;  he'd  be  glad  t'  ha'  ye  to  supper 
wi'  'm,  I'll  be  's  warrand." 

"No,  Dolly,  thank  you;  I'm  off  home. 
Good  evening." 

Adam  hastened  with  long  strides.  Gyp  close 
to  his  heels,  out  of  the  workyard,  and  along  the 
highroad  leading  away  from  the  village  and 
down  to  the  valley.  As  he  reached  the  foot  of 
the  slope,  an  elderly  horseman,  with  his  port- 
manteau strapped  behind  him,  stopped  his 
horse  when  Adam  had  passed  him,  and  turned 
round  to  have  another  long  look  at  the  stalwart 
workman  in  paper  cap,  leather  breeches,  and 
dark- blue  worsted  stockings. 


THE  WORKSHOP  13 

Adam,  unconscious  of  the  admiration  he  was 
exciting,  presently  struck  across  the  fields,  and 
now  broke  out  into  the  tune  which  had  all  day 
long  been  running  in  his  head :  — 

"  Let  all  thy  converse  be  sincere, 
Thy  conscience  as  the  noonday  clear ; 
For  God's  all-seeing  eye  surveys 
Thy  secret  thoughts,  thy  works  and  ways." 


CHAPTER   II 

THE       PREACHING 


ABOUT  a  quarter  to  seven  there  was  an 
unusual  appearance  of  excitement  in  the 
village  of  Hayslope,  and  through  the 
whole  length  of  its  little  street,  from  the  Donni- 
thorne  Arms  to  the  churchyard  gate,  the  inhabi- 
tants had  evidently  been  drawn  out  of  their 
houses  by  something  more  than  the  pleasure 
of  lounging  in  the  evening  sunshine.  The  Don- 
nithorne  Arms  stood  at  the  entrance  of  the  vil- 
lage, and  a  small  farmyard  and  stackyard  which 
flanked  it,  indicating  that  there  was  a  pretty 
take  of  land  attached  to  the  inn,  gave  the  trav- 
eller a  promise  of  good  feed  for  himself  and 
his  horse,  which  might  well  console  him  for  the 
ignorance  in  which  the  weather-beaten  sign  left 
him  as  to  the  heraldic  bearings  of  that  ancient 
family,  the  Donnitho.rnes.  Mr.  Casson,  the 
landlord,  had  been  for  some  time  standing  at 
the  door  with  his  hands  in  his  pockets,  balanc- 
ing himself  on  his  heels  and  toes,  and  looking 
towards  a  piece  of  unenclosed  ground,  with  a 
maple  in  the  middle  of  it,  which  he  knew  to  be 
the  destination  of  certain  grave- looking  men  and 
women  whom  he  had  observed  passing  at 
intervals. 

Mr.  Casson 's  person  was  by  no  means  of 
that  common  type  which  can  be  allowed  to 
pass  without  description.     On  a  front  view  it 


THE   PREACHING  15 

appeared  to  consist  principally  of  two  spheres, 
bearing  about  the  same  relation  to  each  other 
as  the  earth  and  the  moon;  that  is  to  say,  the 
lower  sphere  might  be  said,  at  a  rough  guess, 
to  be  thirteen  times  larger  than  the  upper,  which 
naturally  performed  the  function  of  a  mere 
satellite  and  tributary.  But  here  the  resem- 
blance ceased,  for  Mr.  Casson's  head  was  not 
at  all  a  melancholy-looking  satellite,  nor  was  it 
a  "spotty  globe,"  as  Milton  has  irreverently 
called  the  moon;  on  the  contrary,  no  head  and 
face  could  look  more  sleek  and  healthy,  and  its 
expression,  which  was  chiefly  confined  to  a 
pair  of  round  and  ruddy  cheeks,  the  slight  knot 
and  interruptions  forming  the  nose  and  eyes 
being  scarcely  worth  mention,  was  one  of  jolly 
contentment,  only  tempered  by  that  sense  of 
personal  dignity  which  usually  made  itself  felt 
in  his  attitude  and  bearing.  This  sense  of  dig- 
nity could  hardly  be  considered  excessive  in  a 
man  who  had  been  butler  to  "the  family"  for 
fifteen  years,  and  who  in  his  present  high  posi- 
tion was  necessarily  very  much  in  contact  with 
his  inferiors.  How  to  reconcile  his  dignity 
with  the  satisfaction  of  his  curiosity  by  walk- 
ing towards  the  Green,  was  the  problem  that 
Mr.  Casson  had  been  revolving  in  his  mind  for 
the  last  five  minutes;  but  when  he  had  partly 
solved  it  by  taking  his  hands  out  of  his  pockets 
and  thrusting  them  into  the  arm-holes  of  his 
waistcoat,  by  throwing  his  head  on  one  side,  and 
providing  himself  with  an  air  of  contemptuous 
indifference  to  whatever  might  fall  under  his 
notice,  his  thoughts  were  diverted  by  the  ap- 
proach of  the  horseman  whom  we  lately  saw 


16  ADAM   BEDE 

pausing  to  have  another  look  at  our  friend 
Adam,  and  who  now  pulled  up  at  the  door  of 
the  Donnithorne  Arms. 

"Take  off  the  bridle  and  give  him  a  drink, 
ostler,"  said  the  traveller  to  the  lad  in  a  smock- 
frock,  who  had  come  out  of  the  yard  at  the 
sound  of  the  horse's  hoofs. 

"Why,  what's  up  in  your  pretty  village,  land- 
lord.^" he  continued,  getting  down.  "There 
seems  to  be  quite  a  stir." 

"It's  a  Methodis  preaching,  sir;  it's  been 
gev  hout  as  a  young  woman's  a-goin  to  preach 
on  the  Green,"  answered  Mr.  Casson,  in  a  treble 
and  wheezy  voice,  w^ith  a  slightly  mincing  ac- 
cent. "Will  you  please  to  step  in,  sir,  an'  tek 
somethink.^" 

"No,  I  must  be  getting  on  to  Rosseter.  I 
only  want  a  drink  for  my  horse.  And  what 
does  your  parson  say,  I  wonder,  to  a  young 
woman  preaching  just  under  his  nose.^" 

"Parson  Irwine,  sir,  doesn't  live  here;  he 
lives  at  Brox'on,  over  the  hill  there.  The  par- 
sonage here's  a  tumble-down  place,  sir,  not  fit 
for  gentry  to  live  in.  He  comes  here  to  preach 
of  a  Sunday  afternoon,  sir,  an'  puts  up  his  hoss 
here.  It's  a  gray  cob,  sir,  an'  he  sets  great  store 
by  't.  He's  allays  put  up  his  hoss  here,  sir,  iver 
since  before  I  lied  the  Donnithorne  Arms.  I'm 
not  this  countryman,  you  may  tell  by  my  tongue, 
sir.  They're  cur'ous  talkers  i'  this  country,  sir; 
the  gentry's  hard  work  to  hunderstand  'em.  I 
was  brought  hup  among  the  gentry,  sir,  an'  got 
the  turn  o'  their  tongue  when  I  was  a  bye. 
Why,  what  do  you  think  the  folks  here  says  for 
'hev  n't  you'.f^  —  the   gentry,   you   know,  says 


THE  PREACHING  17 

'hev  n't  you'  —  well,  the  people  about  here 
says  *hanna  yey.'  It's  what  they  call  the  dileck 
as  is  spoke  hereabout,  sir.  That's  what  I've 
beared  Squire  Donnithorne  say  many  a  time; 
it's  the  dileck,  says  he." 

"Ay,  ay,"  said  the  stranger,  smiling.  *'I 
know  it  very  well.  But  you've  not  got  many 
Methodists  about  here,  surely,  —  in  this  agri- 
cultural spot  ?  I  should  have  thought  there 
would  hardly  be  such  a  thing  as  a  Methodist 
to  be  found  about  here.  You're  all  farmers, 
are  n't  you  ?  The  Methodists  can  seldom  lay 
much  hold  on  them.'' 

"Why,  sir,  there's  a  pretty  lot  o'  workmen 
round  about,  sir.  There's  Mester  Burge  as 
owns  the  timber-yard  over  there,  he  underteks 
a  good  bit  o'  building  an'  repairs.  An'  there's 
the  stone-pits  not  far  off.  There's  plenty  of 
emply  i'  this  country-side,  sir.  An'  there's  a 
fine  batch  o'  Methodisses  at  Treddles'on,  — 
that's  the  market- town  about  three  mile  off, 
—  you'll  maybe  ha'  come  through  it,  sir. 
There's  pretty  nigh  a  score  of  'em  on  the  Green 
now,  as  come  from  there.  That's  where  our 
people  gets  it  from,  though  there's  only  two 
men  of  'em  in  all  Hayslope,  —  that's  Will 
Maskery,  the  wheelwright,  and  Seth  Bede,  a 
young  man  as  works  at  the  carpenterin'." 

"The  preacher  comes  from  Treddleston, 
then,  does  she.'^" 

"  Nay,  sir,  she  comes  out  o'  Stonyshire,  pretty 
nigh  thirty  mile  off.  But  she's  a-visitin'  here- 
about at  Mester  Poyser's  at  the  Hall  Farm,  — 
it's  them  barns  an'  big  walnut-trees,  right  away 
to  the  left,  sir.     She's  own  niece  to  Poyser's 

VOL.  I — 2 


18  ADAM   BEDE 

wife,  an'  they'll  be  fine  an'  vexed  at  her  for 
making  a  fool  of  herself  i'  that  way.  But  I've 
heared  as  there's  no  holding  these  Methodisses 
when  the  maggit's  once  got  i'  their  head:  many 
of  'em  goes  stark  starin'  mad  wi'  their  religion. 
Though  this  young  woman's  quiet  enough  to 
look  at,  by  what  I  can  make  out;  I've  not  seen 
her  myself." 

"Well,  I  wish  I  had  time  to  wait  and  see  her, 
but  I  must  get  on.  I  've  been  out  of  my  way  for 
the  last  twenty  minutes,  to  have  a  look  at  that 
place  in  the  valley.  It's  Squire  Donnithorne's, 
I  suppose.^" 

"Yes,  sir,  that's  Donnithorne  Chase,  that  is. 
Fine  hoaks  there,  is  n't  there,  sir  ?  I  should 
know  what  it  is,  sir,  for  I've  lived  butler  there 
a-going  i'  fifteen  year.  It's  Captain  Donni- 
thorne as  is  th'  heir,  sir,  —  Squire  Donnithorne's 
grandson.  He'll  be  comin'  of  hage  this  'ay- 
'arvest,  sir,  an'  we  shall  hev  fine  doin's.  He 
owns  all  the  land  about  here,  sir,  —  Squire 
Donnithorne  does." 

"Well,  it's  a  pretty  spot,  whoever  may  own 
it,"  said  the  traveller,  mounting  his  horse;  "and 
one  meets  some  fine  strapping  fellows  about  too. 
I  met  as  fine  a  young  fellow  as  ever  I  saw  in  my 
life,  about  half  an  hour  ago,  before  I  came  up 
the  hill,  —  a  carpenter,  a  tall  broad-shouldered 
fellow  with  black  hair  and  black  eyes,  marching 
along  like  a  soldier.  We  want  such  fellows  as 
he  to  lick  the  French." 

"Ay,  sir,  that's  Adam  Bede,  that  is,  I'll 
be  bound,  —  Thias  Bede's  son,  —  everybody 
knows  him  hereabout.  He's  an  uncommon 
clever,    stiddy    fellow,    an'    wonderful    strong. 


THE   PREACHING  19 

Lord  bless  you,  sir,  —  if  you'll  hexcuse  me  for 
saying  so,  —  he  can  walk  forty  mile  a  day,  an' 
lift  a  matter  o'  sixty  ston'.  He's  an  uncommon 
favourite  wi'  the  gentry,  sir:  Captain  Donni- 
thorne  and  Parson  Irwine  meks  a  fine  fuss  wi' 
him.    But  he 's  a  little  lifted  up  an'  peppery-like." 

"Well,  good  evening  to  you,  landlord;  I 
must  get  on." 

"Your  servant,  sir;    good  evenin'." 

The  traveller  put  his  horse  into  a  quick  walk 
up  the  village;  but  when  he  approached  the 
Green,  the  beauty  of  the  view  that  lay  on  his 
right  hand,  the  singular  contrast  presented  by 
the  groups  of  villagers  with  the  knot  of  Metho- 
dists near  the  maple,  and  perhaps  yet  more,  cur- 
iosity to  see  the  young  female  preacher,  proved 
too  much  for  his  anxiety  to  get  to  the  end  of  his 
journey,  and  he  paused. 

The  Green  lay  at  the  extremity  of  the  village, 
and  from  it  the  road  branched  off  in  two  direc- 
tions, —  one  leading  farther  up  the  hill  by  the 
church,  and  the  other  winding  gently  down 
towards  the  valley.  On  the  side  of  the  Green 
that  led  towards  the  church,  the  broken  line 
of  thatched  cottages  was  continued  nearly  to  the 
churchyard  gate;  but  on  the  opposite,  north- 
western side,  there  was  nothing  to  obstruct  the 
view  of  gently  swelling  meadow,  and  wooded 
valley,  and  dark  masses  of  distant  hill.  That 
rich  undulating  district  of  Loamshire  to  which 
Hayslope  belonged,  lies  close  to  a  grim  outskirt 
of  Stonyshire,  overlooked  by  its  barren  hills  as 
a  pretty  blooming  sister  may  sometimes  be  seen 
linked  in  the  arm  of  a  rugged,  tall,  swarthy 
brother;  and  in  two  or  three  hours'  ride  the 


20  ADAM  BEDE 

traveller  might  exchange  a  bleak  treeless  region, 
intersected  by  lines  of  cold  gray  stone,  for  one 
where   his   road   wound    under   the   shelter   of 
woods,  or  up  swelling  hills,  muffled  with  hedge- 
rows and  long  meadow-grass  and  thick  corn; 
and  where  at  every  turn  he  came  upon  some  fine 
old  country-seat  nestled  in  the  valley  or  crown- 
ing  the   slope,   some   homestead   with   its   long 
length  of  barn  and  its  cluster  of  golden  ricks, 
some  gray  steeple  looking  out  from  a  pretty  con- 
fusion of  trees  and  thatch  and  dark-red  tiles. 
It  was  just  such  a  picture  as  this  last  that  Hay- 
slope  Church  had  made  to  the  traveller  as  he 
began  to  mount  the  gentle  slope  leading  to  its 
pleasant  uplands ;  and  now  from  his  station  near 
the  Green  he  had  before  him  in  one  view  nearly 
all  the  other  typical  features  of  this  pleasant 
land.     High  up  against  the  horizon  were  the 
huge  conical  masses  of  hill,  like  giant  mounds 
intended  to  fortify  this  region  of  corn  and  grass 
against  the  keen  and  hungry  winds  of  the  north; 
not  distant  enough  to  be  clothed  in  purple  mys- 
tery,   but   with   sombre   greenish   sides   visibly 
specked   with   sheep,   whose   motion   was   only 
revealed   by   memory,    not   detected   by   sight; 
wooed  from  day  to  day  by  the  changing  hours, 
but  responding  with  no  change  in  themselves, 
—  left  forever  grim  and  sullen  after  the  flush  of 
morning,  the  winged  gleams  of  the  April  noon- 
day, the  parting  crimson  glory  of  the  ripening 
summer  sun.     And  directly  below  them  the  eye 
rested   on   a   more   advanced   line   of   hanging 
woods,  divided  by  ])right  patches  of  pasture  or 
furrowed  crops,  and  not  yet  deepened  into  the 
uniform  leafy  curtains  of  high  summer,  but  still 


THE  PREACHING  21 

showing  the  warm  tints  of  the  young  oak  and 
the  tender  green  of  the  ash  and  lime.  Then 
came  the  valley,  where  the  woods  grew  thicker, 
as  if  they  had  rolled  down  and  hurried  together 
from  the  patches  left  smooth  on  the  slope,  that 
they  might  take  the  better  care  of  the  tall  man- 
sion which  lifted  its  parapets  and  sent  its  faint 
blue  summer  smoke  among  them.  Doubtless 
there  was  a  large  sweep  of  park  and  a  broad 
glassy  pool  in  front  of  that  mansion,  but  the 
swelling  slope  of  meadow  would  not  let  our 
traveller  see  them  from  the  village  green.  He 
saw  instead  a  foreground  which  was  just  as 
lovely,  —  the  level  sunlight  lying  like  trans- 
parent gold  among  the  gently  curving  stems  of 
the  feathered  grass  and  the  tall  red  sorrel,  and 
the  white  umbels  of  the  hemlocks  lining  the 
bushy  hedgerows.  It  was  that  moment  in  sum- 
mer when  tlie  sound  of  the  scythe  being  whetted 
makes  us  cast  more  lingering  looks  at  the  flower- 
sprinkled  tresses  of  the  meadows. 

He  might  have  seen  other  beauties  in  the 
landscape  if  he  had  turned  a  little  in  his  saddle 
and  looked  eastward,  beyond  Jonathan  Burge's 
pasture  and  woodyard  towards  the  green  corn- 
fields and  walnut-trees  of  the  Hall  Farm;  but 
apparently  there  was  more  interest  for  him  in 
the  living  groups  close  at  hand.  Every  genera- 
tion in  the  village  was  there,  —  from  old  "  Fey- 
ther  Taft"  in  his  brown  worsted  nightcap,  who 
was  bent  nearly  double,  but  seemed  tough 
enough  to  keep  on  his  legs  a  long  while,  lean- 
ing on  his  short  stick,  down  to  the  babies  with 
their  little  round  heads  lolling  forward  in 
quilted  linen  caps.     Now  and  then  there  was 


22  ADAM   BEDE 

a  new  arrival;  perhaps  a  slouching  labourer, 
who,  having  eaten  his  supper,  came  out  to  look 
at  the  unusual  scene  with  a  slow  bovine  gaze, 
willing  to  hear  what  any  one  had  to  say  in  ex- 
planation of  it,  but  by  no  means  excited  enough 
to  ask  a  question.  But  all  took  care  not  to  join 
the  Methodists  on  the  Green,  and  identify  them- 
selves in  that  way  with  the  expectant  audience; 
for  there  was  not  one  of  them  that  would  not 
have  disclaimed  the  imputation  of  having  come 
out  to  hear  the  "preacher- woman,"  —  they  had 
only  come  out  to  see  "what  war  a-goin'  on, 
like."  The  men  were  chiefly  gathered  in  the 
neighbourhood  of  the  blacksmith's  shop.  But 
do  not  imagine  them  gathered  in  a  knot.  Vil- 
lagers never  swarm;  a  whisper  is  unknown 
among  them,  and  they  seem  almost  as  incap- 
able of  an  undertone  as  a  cow  or  a  stag.  Your 
true  rustic  turns  his  back  on  his  interlocutor, 
throwing  a  question  over  his  shoulder  as  if  he 
meant  to  run  away  from  the  answer,  and  walking 
a  step  or  two  farther  off  when  the  interest  of  the 
dialogue  culminates.  So  the  group  in  the  vicin- 
ity of  the  blacksmith's  door  was  by  no  means  a 
close  one,  and  formed  no  screen  in  front  of  Chad 
Cranage,  the  blacksmith  himself,  who  stood 
with  his  black  brawny  arms  folded,  leaning 
against  the  door-post,  and  occasionally  send- 
ing forth  a  bellowing  laugh  at  his  own  jokes, 
giving  them  a  marked  preference  over  the  sar- 
casms of  Wiry  Ben,  who  had  renounced  the 
pleasures  of  the  Holly  Bush  for  the  sake  of  see- 
ing life  under  a  new  form.  But  both  styles  of 
wit  were  treated  with  equal  contempt  by  Mr. 
Joshua  Rann.     Mr.  Rann's  leathern  apron  and 


THE   PREACHING  23 

subdued  griminess  can  leave  no  one  in  any 
doubt  that  he  is  the  village  shoemaker;  the 
thrusting  out  of  his  chin  and  stomach,  and  the 
twirling  of  his  thumbs  are  more  subtle  indica- 
tions, intended  to  prepare  unwary  strangers  for 
the  discovery  that  they  are  in  the  presence  of  the 
parish  clerk.  "Old  Joshway,"  as  he  is  irrever- 
ently called  by  his  neighbours,  is  in  a  state  Qf  sim- 
mering indignation;  but  he  has  not  yet  opened 
his  lips  except  to  say,  in  a  resounding  bass  un- 
dertone, like  the  tuning  of  a  violoncello,  "  Sehon, 
King  of  the  Amorites:  for  His  mercy  endureth 
forever;  and  Og,  the  King  of  Basan:  for  His 
mercy  endureth  forever,"  —  a  quotation  which 
may  seem  to  have  slight  bearing  on  the  present 
occasion,  but,  as  with  every  other  anomaly,  ade- 
quate knowledge  will  show  it  to  be  a  natural 
sequence.  Mr.  Rann  was  inwardly  maintain- 
ing the  dignity  of  the  Church  in  the  face  of  this 
scandalous  irruption  of  Methodism;  and  as  that 
dignity  was  bound  up  with  his  own  sonorous 
utterance  of  the  responses,  his  argument  natu- 
rally suggested  a  quotation  from  the  Psalm  he 
had  read  the  last  Sunday  afternoon. 

The  stronger  curiosity  of  the  women  had 
drawn  them  quite  to  the  edge  of  the  Green, 
where  they  could  , examine  more  closely  the 
Quaker- like  costume  and  odd  deportment  of 
the  female  Methodists.  Underneath  the  maple 
there  was  a  small  cart  which  had  been  brought 
from  the  wheelwright's  to  serve  as  a  pulpit,  and 
round  this  a  couple  of  benches  and  a  few  chairs 
had  been  placed.  Some  of  the  Methodists  were 
resting  on  these,  with  their  eyes  closed,  as  if 
rapt  in  prayer  or  meditation.     Others  chose  to 


24  ADAM   BEDE 

continue  standing,  and  had  turned  their  faces 
towards  the  villagers  with  a  look  of  melancholy 
compassion,  which  was  highly  amusing  to  Bessy 
Cranage,  the  blacksmith's  buxom  daughter, 
known  to  her  neighbours  as  Chad's  Bess,  who 
wondered  "why  the  folks  war  a-makin'  faces  a 
that  'ns."  Chad's  Bess  was  the  object  of  pecu- 
liar compassion,  because  her  hair,  being  turned 
back  under  a  cap  which  was  set  at  the  top  of  her 
head,  exposed  to  view  an  ornament  of  which  she 
was  much  prouder  than  of  her  red  cheeks; 
namely,  a  pair  of  large  round  ear-rings  with 
false  garnets  in  them,  —  ornaments  contemned 
not  only  by  the  Methodists,  but  by  her  own 
cousin  and  namesake  Timothy's  Bess,  who 
with  much  cousinly  feeling  often  wished  "  them 
ear-rings"  might  come  to  good. 

Timothy's  Bess,  though  retaining  her  maiden 
appellation  among  her  familiars,  had  long 
been  the  wife  of  Sandy  Jim,  and  possessed  a 
handsome  set  of  matronly  jewels,  of  which  it  is 
enough  to  mention  the  heavy  baby  she  was 
rocking  in  her  arms,  and  the  sturdy  fellow  of  five 
in  knee-breeches  and  red  legs,  who  had  a  rusty 
milk- can  round  his  neck  by  way  of  drum,  and 
was  very  carefully  avoided  by  Chad's  small  ter- 
rier. This  young  olive-branch,  notorious  un- 
der the  name  of  Timothy's  Bess's  Ben,  being 
of  an  inquiring  disposition,  unchecked  by  any 
false  modesty,  had  advanced  beyond  the  group 
of  women  and  children,  and  was  walking  round 
the  Methodists,  looking  up  in  their  faces  with 
his  mouth  wide  open,  and  beating  his  stick 
against  the  milk-can  by  way  of  musical  accom- 
paniment.    But  one  of  the  elderly  women  bend- 


THE  PREACHING  25 

ingdown  to  take  him  by  the  shoulder,  with  an 
air  of  grave  remonstrance,  Timothy's  Bess's  Ben 
first  kicked  out  vigorously,  then  took  to  his  heels, 
and  sought  refuge  behind  his  father's  legs. 

"Ye  gallows  young  dog,"  said  Sandy  Jim, 
with  some  paternal  pride,  *'if  ye  donna  keep 
that  stick  quiet,  I'll  tek  it  from  ye.  Whatd' 
ye  mane  by  kickin'  foulks?" 

"Here!  gie  him  here  to  me,  Jim,"  said  Chad 
Cranage;  "I'll  tie  him  up  an' shoe  him  as  I 
do  th'  bosses.  Well,  Mester  Casson,"  he  con- 
tinued, as  that  personage  sauntered  up  towards 
the  group  of  men,  "  how  are  ye  t'  naight  ?  Are 
ye  coom  t'  help  groon  ?  They  say  folks  allays 
groon  when  they're  hearkenin'  to  th'  Methodies, 
as  if  they  war  bad  i'  th'  inside.  I  mane  to  groon 
as  loud  as  your  cow  did  th'  other  naight,  an'  then 
the  praicher  'ull  think  I'm  i'  th'  raight  way." 

"I  'd  advise  you  not  to  be  up  to  no  non- 
sense, Chad,"  said  Mr,  Casson,  with  some  dig- 
nity; "Poyser  would  n't  like  to  hear  as  his  wife's 
niece  was  treated  any  ways  disrespectful,  for  all 
he  may  n't  be  fond  of  her  taking  on  herself  to 
preach." 

"Ay,  an'  she's  a  pleasant-looked  un  too," 
said  Wiry  Ben.  "I'll  stick  up  for  the  pretty 
women  preachin';  I  know  they'd  persuade  me 
over  a  deal  sooner  nor  th'  ugly  men.  I  shouldna 
wonder  if  I  turn  Methody  afore  the  night's 
out,  an'  begin  to  coort  the  preacher,  like  Seth 
Bede." 

"Why,  Seth's  looking  rether  too  high,  I 
should  think,"  said  Mr.  Casson.  "This  wom- 
an's kin  would  n't  like  her  to  demean  herself 
to  a  common  carpenter." 


26  ADAM   BEDE 

"Tchu!"  said  Ben,  with  a  long  treble  into- 
nation, "  what's  folk's  kin  got  to  do  wi'  't  ?  Not 
a  chip.  Poyser's  wife  may  turn  her  nose  up  an' 
forget  bygones;  but  this  Dinah  Morris,  they  tell 
nie,'s  as  poor  as  iver  she  was,  —  works  at  a  mill, 
an's  much  ado  to  keep  hersen.  A  strappin' 
young  carpenter  as  is  a  ready-made  Methody, 
like  Seth,  wouldna  be  a  bad  match  for  her. 
Why,  Poysers  make  as  big  a  fuss  wi'  Adam 
Bede  as  if  he  war  a  nevvy  o'  their  own." 

"Idle  talk!  idle  talk!"  said  Mr.  Joshua  Rann. 
"Adam  an'  Seth's  two  men;  you  wunna  fit 
them  two  wi'  the  same  last." 

"Maybe,"  said  Wiry  Ben,  contemptuously; 
"but  Seth's  the  lad  for  me,  though  he  war  a 
Methody  twice  o'er.  I'm  fair  beat  wi'  Seth,  for 
I've  been  teasin'  him  iver  sin'  we've  been  work- 
in'  together,  an'  he  bears  me  no  more  malice 
nor  a  lamb.  An'  he's  a  stout-hearted  feller  too; 
for  when  we  saw  the  old  tree  all  afire  a-comin' 
across  the  fields  one  night,  an'  we  thought  as  it 
war  a  boguy,  Seth  made  no  more  ado,  but  he 
up  to  't  as  bold  as  a  constable.  Why,  there  he 
comes  out  o'  Will  Maskery's;  an'  there's  Will 
hisself,  lookin'  as  meek  as  if  he  couldna  knock 
a  nail  o'  the  head  fer  fear  o'  hurtin'  't.  An' 
there's  the  pretty  preacher- woman !  My  eye, 
she's  got  her  bonnet  oft'.  I  mun  go  a  bit 
nearer." 

Several  of  the  men  followed  Ben's  lead,  and 
the  traveller  pushed  his  horse  on  to  the  Green, 
as  Dinah  walked  rather  quickly,  and  in  ad- 
vance of  her  companions,  towards  the  cart  un- 
der the  maple- tree.  While  she  was  near  Seth's 
tall  figure,  she  looked  short,  but  when  she  had 


THE   PREACHING  27 

mounted  the  cart,  and  was  away  from  all  com- 
parison, she  seemed  above  the  middle  height  of 
woman,  though  in  reality  she  did  not  exceed  it, 
—  an  effect  which  was  due  to  the  slimness  of  her 
figure,  and  the  simple  line  of  her  black  stuff 
dress.  The  stranger  was  struck  with  surprise 
as  he  saw  her  approach  and  mount  the  cart,  — 
surprise,  not  so  much  at  the  feminine  delicacy  of 
her  appearance  as  at  the  total  absence  of  self- 
consciousness  in  her  demeanour.  He  had  made 
up  his  mind  to  see  her  advance  with  a  measured 
step,  and  a  demure  solemnity  of  countenance; 
he  had  felt  sure  that  her  face  would  be  mantled 
with  the  smile  of  conscious  saintship,  or  else 
charged  with  denunciatory  bitterness.  He 
knew  but  two  types  of  Methodist,  —  the  ec- 
static and  the  bilious.  But  Dinah  walked  as 
simply  as  if  she  were  going  to  market,  and 
seemed  as  unconscious  of  her  outward  appear- 
ance as  a  little  boy.  There  was  no  blush,  no 
tremulousness,  which  said,  "I  know  you  think 
me  a  pretty  woman,  too  young  to  preach;"  no 
casting  up  or  down  of  the  eyelids,  no  compres- 
sion of  the  lips,  no  attitude  of  the  arms,  that 
said,  "But  you  must  think  of  me  as  a  saint." 
She  held  no  book  in  her  ungloved  hands,  but  let 
them  hang  down  lightly  crossed  before  her,  as 
she  stood  and  turned  her  gray  eyes  on  the  people. 
There  was  no  keenness  in  the  eyes ;  they  seemed 
rather  to  be  shedding  love  than  making  observa- 
tions; they  had  the  liquid  look  which  tells  that 
the  mind  is  full  of  what  it  has  to  give  out,  rather 
than  impressed  by  external  objects.  She  stood 
with  her  left  hand  towards  the  descending  sun, 
and  leafy  boughs  screened  her  from  its  rays ;  but 


28  ADAM  BEDE 

in  this  sober  light  the  dehcate  colouring  of  her 
face  seemed  to  gather  a  calm  vividness,  like 
flowers  at  evening.  It  was  a  small  oval  face,  of 
a  uniform  transparent  whiteness,  with  an  egg- 
like line  of  cheek  and  chin,  a  full  but  firm 
mouth,  a  delicate  nostril,  and  a  low  perpendicu- 
lar brow%  surmounted  by  a  rising  arch  of  parting 
between  smooth  locks  of  pale  reddish  hair. 
The  hair  was  drawn  straight  back  behind  the 
ears,  and  covered,  except  for  an  inch  or  two 
above  the  brow,  by  a  net  Quaker  cap.  The 
eyebrows,  of  the  same  colour  as  the  hair,  were 
perfectly  horizontal  and  firmly  pencilled;  the 
eyelashes,  though  no  darker,  were  long  and 
abundant;  nothing  was  left  blurred  or  unfin- 
ished. It  was  one  of  those  faces  that  make  one 
think  of  white  flowers  with  light  touches  of 
colour  on  their  pure  petals.  The  eyes  had  no 
peculiar  beauty,  beyond  that  of  expression; 
they  looked  so  simple,  so  candid,  so  gravely 
loving,  that  no  accusing  scowl,  no  light  sneer 
could  help  melting  away  before  their  glance. 
Joshua  Rann  gave  a  long  cough,  as  if  he  were 
clearing  his  throat  in  order  to  come  to  a  new 
understanding  with  himself;  Chad  Cranage 
lifted  up  his  leather  skull-cap  and  scratched  his 
head;  and  Wiry  Ben  wondered  how  Seth  had 
the  pluck  to  think  of  courting  her. 

"A  sweet  woman,"  the  stranger  said  to  him- 
self; "but  surely  Nature  never  meant  her  for  a 
preacher." 

Perhaps  he  was  one  of  those  who  think  that 
Nature  has  theatrical  properties,  and,  with  the 
considerate  view  of  facilitating  art  and  psychol- 
ogy, "makes  up"  her  characters,  so  that  there 


THE   PREACHING  29 

may  be  no  mistake  about  them.  But  Dinah 
began    to    speak. 

"Dear  friends,"  she  said,  in  a  clear  but  not 
loud  voice,  "let  us  pray  for  a  blessing." 

She  closed  her  eyes,  and  hanging  her  head 
down  a  little,  continued  in  the  same  moderate 
tone,  as  if  speaking  to  some  one  quite  near 
her:  — 

"Saviour  of  sinners!  when  a  poor  woman, 
laden  with  sins,  went  out  to  the  well  to  draw 
water,  she  found  Thee  sitting  at  the  well.  She 
knew  Thee  not;  she  had  not  sought  Thee; 
her  mind  was  dark;  her  life  was  unholy.  But 
Thou  didst  speak  to  her.  Thou  didst  teach  her. 
Thou  didst  show  her  that  her  life  lay  open  be- 
fore Thee,  and  yet  Thou  wast  ready  to  give  her 
that  blessing  which  she  had  never  sought. 
Jesus,  Thou  art  in  the  midst  of  us,  and  Thou 
knowest  all  men  ;  if  there  is  anv  here  like  that 
poor  woman,  —  if  their  minds  are  dark,  their 
lives  unholy,  —  if  they  have  come  out  not  seek- 
ing Thee,  not  desiring  to  be  taught,  —  deal  with 
them  according  to  the  free  mercy  which  Thou 
didst  show  to  her.  Speak  to  them,  Lord;  open 
their  ears  to  my  message;  bring  their  sins  to 
their  minds,  and  make  them  thirst  for  that  sal- 
vation which  Thou  art  ready  to  give. 

"Lord,  Thou  art  with  Thy  people  still:  they 
see  Thee  in  the  night-watches,  and  their  hearts 
burn  within  them  as  Thou  talkest  with  them 
by  the  way.  And  Thou  art  near  to  those  who 
have  not  known  Thee:  open  their  eyes  that 
they  may  see  Thee,  —  see  Thee  weeping  over 
them,  and  saying,  'Ye  will  not  come  unto  me 
that  ye  might  have  life,'  —  see  Thee  hanging 


30  ADAM   BEDE 

on  the  cross  and  saying,  'Father,  forgive  them, 
for  they  know  not  what  they  do,'  —  see  Thee  as 
Thou  wilt  come  again  in  Thy  glory  to  judge 
them  at  the  last.     Amen." 

Dinah  opened  her  eyes  again  and  paused, 
looking  at  the  group  of  villagers,  who  were  now 
gathered  rather  more  closely  on  her  right  hand. 

"Dear  friends,"  she  began,  raising  her  voice 
a  little,  "you  have  all  of  you  been  to  church,  and 
I  think  you  must  have  heard  the  clergyman  read 
these  words:  'The  Spirit  of  the  Lord  is  upon 
me,  because  he  hath  anointed  me  to  preach  the 
Gospel  to  the  poor.'  Jesus  Christ  spoke  those 
words  —  he  said  he  came  to  preach  the  Gospel 
to  the  poor.  I  don't  know  whether  you  ever 
thought  about  those  words  much;  but  I  will 
tell  you  when  I  remember  first  hearing  them. 
It  was  on  just  such  a  sort  of  evening  as  this, 
when  I  was  a  little  girl,  and  my  aunt  as  brought 
me  up  took  me  to  hear  a  good  man  preach  out 
of  doors,  just  as  we  are  here.  I  remember  his 
face  well.  He  was  a  very  old  man,  and  had 
very  long  white  hair;  his  voice  was  very  soft 
and  beautiful,  not  like  any  voice  I  had  ever 
heard  before.  I  was  a  little  girl,  and  scarcely 
knew  anything;  and  this  old  man  seemed  to  me 
such  a  different  sort  of  a  man  from  anybody  I 
had  ever  seen  before,  that  I  thought  he  had  per- 
haps come  down  from  the  sky  to  preach  to  us, 
and  I  said,  'Aunt,  will  he  go  back  to  the  sky  to- 
night, like  the  picture  in  the  Bible  .^' 

"That  man  of  God  was  Mr.  Wesley,  who 
spent  his  life  in  doing  what  our  blessed  Lord 
did,  —  preaching  the  Gospel  to  the  poor;  and 
he  entered  into  his  rest  eight  years  ago.     I  came 


THE   PREACHING  31 

to  know  more  about  him  years  after,  but  I  was 
a  foolish,  thoughtless  child  then,  and  I  remem- 
bered only  one  thing  he  told  us  in  his  sermon. 
He  told  us  as  'Gospel'  meant  'good  news.' 
The  Gospel,  you  know,  is  what  the  Bible  tells 
us  about  God, 

"Think  of  that  now!  Jesus  Christ  did  really 
come  down  from  heaven,  as  I,  like  a  silly  child, 
thought  Mr.  Wesley  did;  and  what  he  came 
down  for,  was  to  tell  good  news  about  God  to 
the  poor.  Why,  you  and  me,  dear  friends,  are 
poor.  We  have  been  brought  up  in  poor  cot- 
tages, and  have  been  reared  on  oat- cake,  and 
lived  coarse;  and  we  haven't  been  to  school 
much,  nor  read  books,  and  we  don't  know  much 
about  anything  but  what  happens  just  round  us. 
We  are  just  the  sort  of  people  that  want  to  hear 
good  news.  For  when  anybody's  well  off,  they 
don't  much  mind  about  hearing  news  from  dis- 
tant parts;  but  if  a  poor  man  or  woman's  in 
trouble  and  has  hard  work  to  make  out  a  living, 
they  like  to  have  a  letter  to  tell  'em  they've  got  a 
friend  as  will  help  'em.  To  be  sure,  we  can't 
help  knowing  something  about  God,  even  if 
we've  never  heard  the  Gospel,  the  good  news 
that  our  Saviour  brought  us.  For  we  know 
everything  comes  from  God:  don't  you  say  al- 
most every  day,  'This  and  that  will  happen, 
please  God;'  and  'We  shall  begin  to  cut  the 
grass  soon,  please  God  to  send  us  a  little  more 
sunshine'  ?  We  know  very  well  we  are  alto- 
gether in  the  hands  of  God:  we  didn't  bring 
ourselves  into  the  world,  we  can't  keep  our- 
selves alive  while  we're  sleeping;  the  daylight, 
and  the  wind,  and  the  corn,  and  the  cows  to  give 


32  ADAM   BEDE 

us  milk,  —  everything  we  have  comes  from  God. 
And  he  gave  us  our  souls,  and  put  love  between 
parents  and  children  and  husband  and  wife. 
But  is  that  as  much  as  we  want  to  know  about 
God  ?  We  see  he  is  great  and  mighty,  and  can 
do  what  he  will ;  we  are  lost,  as  if  we  was  strug- 
gling in  great  waters,  when  we  try  to  think  of 
him. 

"But  perhaps  doubts  come  into  your  mind 
like  this:  Can  God  take  much  notice  of  us  poor 
people  ?  Perhaps  he  only  made  the  world  for 
the  great  and  the  wise  and  the  rich.  It  does  n't 
cost  him  much  to  give  us  our  little  handful  of 
victual  and  bit  of  clothing;  but  how  do  we  know 
he  cares  for  us  any  more  than  we  care  for  the 
worms  and  things  in  the  garden,  so  as  we  rear 
our  carrots  and  onions  ?  Will  God  take  care  of 
us  when  we  die,  and  has  he  any  comfort  for  us 
when  we  are  lame  and  sick  and  helpless  ?  Per- 
haps, too,  he  is  angry  with  us;  else  why  does  the 
blight  come,  and  the  bad  harvests,  and  the  fever, 
and  all  sorts  of  pain  and  trouble  ?  For  our  life 
is  full  of  trouble,  and  if  God  sends  us  good,  he 
seems  to  send  bad  too.     How  is  it  ?  how  is  it  ? 

"  Ah !  dear  friends,  we  are  in  sad  want  of  good 
news  about  God;  and  what  does  other  good 
news  signify  if  we  have  n't  that  ?  For  every- 
thing else  comes  to  an  end,  and  when  we  die 
we  leave  it  all.  But  God  lasts  when  everything 
else  is  gone.  What  shall  we  do  if  he  is  not 
our  friend  .^" 

Then  Dinah  told  how  the  good  news  had  been 
brought,  and  how  the  mind  of  God  towards  the 
poor  had  been  made  manifest  in  the  life  of  Jesus, 
dwelling  on  its  lowliness  and  its  acts  of  mercy. 


THE   PREACHING  33 

"  So  you  see,  dear  friends,"  she  went  on, 
"  Jesus  spent  his  time  almost  all  in  doing  good 
to  poor  people;  he  preached  out  of  doors  to 
them,  and  he  made  friends  of  poor  workmen, 
and  taught  them  and  took  pains  with  them. 
Not  but  what  he  did  good  to  the  rich  too,  for  he 
was  full  of  love  to  all  men;  only  he  saw  as  the 
poor  were  more  in  want  of  his  help.  So  he 
cured  the  lame  and  the  sick  and  the  blind,  and 
he  worked  miracles  to  feed  the  hungry,  because, 
he  said,  he  was  sorry  for  them ;  and  he  was  very 
kind  to  the  little  children,  and  comforted  those 
who  had  lost  their  friends;  and  he  spoke  very 
tenderly  to  poor  sinners  that  were  sorry  for 
their  sins. 

"Ah!  would  n't  you  love  such  a  man  if  you 
saw  him,  — -  if  he  was  here  in  this  village  ? 
What  a  kind  heart  he  must  have!  What  a 
friend  he  would  be  to  go  to  in  trouble!  How 
pleasant  it  must  be  to  be  taught  by  him! 

"  Well,  dear  friends,  who  was  this  man  ?  Was 
he  only  a  good  man,  —  a  very  good  man,  and  no 
more,  —  like  our  dear  Mr.  Wesley,  who  has 
been  taken  from  us  .^  .  .  .  He  was  the  Son  of 
God,  —  'in  the  image  of  the  Father,'  the  Bible 
says;  that  means,  just  like  God,  who  is  the  be- 
ginning and  end  of  all  things,  —  the  God  we 
want  to  know  about.  So  then,  all  the  love  that 
Jesus  showed  to  the  poor  is  the  same  love  that 
God  has  for  us.  We  can  understand  what 
Jesus  felt,  because  he  came  in  a  body  like  ours, 
and  spoke  words  such  as  we  speak  to  each  other. 
We  were  afraid  to  think  what  God  was  before, 
—  the  God  who  made  the  world  and  the  sky  and 
the  thunaer  and  lightning.     We  could  never  see 

VOL.  I — 9 


34  ADAM   BEDE 

him ;  we  could  only  see  the  things  he  had  made ; 
and  some  of  these  things  was  very  terrible,  so 
as  we  might  well  tremble  when  we  thought  of 
him.  But  our  blessed  Saviour  has  showed  us 
what  God  is  in  a  way  us  poor  ignorant  people 
can  understand;  he  has  showed  us  what  God's 
heart  is,  what  are  his  feelings  towards  us. 

"  But  let  us  see  a  little  more  about  what  Jesus 
came  on  earth  for.  Another  time  he  said,  'I 
came  to  seek  and  to  save  that  which  was  lost;' 
and  another  time,  '  I  came  not  to  call  the  right- 
eous but  sinners  to  repentance.' 

"The/o5^.^.  .  .  Sinners! .  .  .Ah!  dear  friends, 
does  that  mean  you  and  me.^" 

Hitherto  the  traveller  had  been  chained  to  the 
spot  against  his  will  by  the  charm  of  Dinah's 
mellow  treble  tones,  which  had  a  variety  of 
modulation  like  that  of  a  fine  instrument 
touched  with  the  unconscious  skill  of  musical 
instinct.  The  simple  things  she  said  seemed 
like  novelties,  as  a  melody  strikes  us  with  a  new 
feeling  when  we  hear  it  sung  by  the  pure  voice 
of  a  boyish  chorister;  the  quiet  depth  of  con- 
viction with  which  she  spoke  seemed  in  itself  an 
evidence  for  the  truth  of  her  message.  He  saw 
that  she  had  thoroughly  arrested  her  hearers. 
The  villagers  had  pressed  nearer  to  her,  and 
there  was  no  longer  anything  but  grave  atten- 
tion on  all  faces.  She  spoke  slowly,  though 
quite  fluently,  often  pausing  after  a  question, 
or  before  any  transition  of  ideas.  There  was 
no  change  of  attitude,  no  gesture;  the  effect  of 
her  speech  was  produced  entirely  by  the  inflec- 
tions of  her  voice;  and  when  she  came  to  the 
question,  "Will  God  take  care  of  us  when  we 


THE   PREACHING  35 

die?"  she  uttered  it  in  such  a  tone  of  plaintive 
appeal  that  the  tears  came  into  some  of  the 
hardest  eyes.  The  stranger  had  ceased  to 
doubt,  as  he  had  done  at  the  first  glance,  that 
she  could  fix  the  attention  of  her  rougher 
hearers;  but  still  he  wondered  whether  she 
could  have  that  power  of  rousing  their  more 
violent  emotions  which  must  surely  be  a  neces- 
sary seal  of  her  vocation  as  a  Methodist 
preacher,  until  she  came  to  the  words,  "Lost! 
—  Sinners!"  when  there  was  a  great  change  in 
her  voice  and  manner.  She  had  made  a  long 
pause  before  the  exclamation,  and  the  pause 
seemed  to  be  filled  by  agitating  thoughts  that 
showed  themselves  in  her  features.  Her  pale 
face  became  paler;  the  circles  under  her  eyes 
deepened,  as  they  do  when  tears  half  gather 
without  falling;  and  the  mild  loving  eyes  took 
an  expression  of  appalled  pity,  as  if  she  had 
suddenly  discerned  a  destroying  angel  hovering 
over  the  heads  of  the  people.  Her  voice  became 
deep  and  muffled,  but  there  was  still  no  gesture. 
Nothing  could  be  less  like  the  ordinary  type  of 
the  Ranter  than  Dinah.  She  was  not  preach- 
ing as  she  heard  others  preach,  but  speaking 
directly  from  her  own  emotions,  and  under  the 
inspiration  of  her  own  simple  faith. 

But  now  she  had  entered  into  a  new  current 
of  feeling.  Her  manner  became  less  calm,  her 
utterance  more  rapid  and  agitated,  as  she  tried 
to  bring  home  to  the  people  their  guilt,  their 
wilful  darkness,  their  state  of  disobedience  to 
God,  —  as  she  dwelt  on  the  hatefulness  of  sin, 
the  Divine  holiness,  and  the  sufferings  of  the 
Saviour,  by  which  a  way  had  been  opened  for 


86  ADAM  BEDE 

their  salvation.  At  last  it  seemed  as  if,  in  her 
yearning  desire  to  reclaim  the  lost  sheep,  she 
could  not  be  satisfied  by  addressing  her  hearers 
as  a  body.  She  appealed  first  to  one  and  then 
to  another,  beseeching  them  with  tears  to  turn 
to  God  while  there  was  yet  time;  painting  to 
them  the  desolation  of  their  souls,  lost  in  sin, 
feeding  on  the  husks  of  this  miserable  world, 
far  away  from  God,  their  Father;  and  then  the 
love  of  the  Saviour,  who  was  waiting  and  watch- 
ing for  their  return. 

Their  was  many  a  responsive  sigh  and  groan 
from  her  fellow- Methodists;  but  the  village 
mind  does  not  easily  take  fire,  and  a  little 
smouldering  vague  anxiety,  that  might  easily 
die  out  again,  was  the  utmost  effect  Dinah's 
preaching  had  wrought  in  them  at  present.  Yet 
no  one  had  retired,  except  the  children  and  "  old 
Feyther  Taft,"  who  being  too  deaf  to  catch 
many  words,  had  some  time  ago  gone  back  to  his 
ingle-nook.  Wiry  Ben  was  feeling  very  uncom- 
fortable, and  almost  wishing  he  had  not  come  to 
hear  Dinah;  he  thought  what  she  said  would 
haunt  him  somehow.  Yet  he  could  n't  help 
liking  to  look  at  her.  and  listen  to  her,  though 
he  dreaded  every  moment  that  she  would  fix 
her  eyes  on  him,  and  address  him  in  particular. 
She  had  already  addressed  Sandy  Jim,  who  was 
now  holding  the  baby  to  relieve  his  wife;  and 
the  big  soft-hearted  man  had  rubbed  away  some 
tears  with  his  fist,  with  a  confused  intention  of 
being  a  better  fellow,  going  less  to  the  Holly 
Bush  down  by  the  Stone-pits,  and  cleaning  him- 
self more  regularly  of  a  Sunday. 

In  front  of  Sandy  Jim  stood  Chad's  Bess,  who 


THE   PREACHING  S7 

had  shown  an  unwonted  quietude  and  fixity  of 
attention  ever  since  Dinah  had  begun  to  speak. 
Not  that  the  matter  of  the  discourse  had  ar- 
rested her  at  once,  for  she  was  lost  in  a  puzzHng 
speculation  as  to  what  pleasure  and  satisfaction 
there  could  be  in  life  to  a  young  woman  who 
wore  a  cap  like  Dinah's.  Giving  up  this  inquiry 
in  despair,  she  took  to  studying  Dinah's  nose, 
eyes,  mouth,  and  hair,  and  wondering  whether 
it  was  better  to  have  such  a  sort  of  pale  face  as 
that,  or  fat  red  cheeks  and  round  black  eyes  like 
her  own.  But  gradually  the  influence  of  the 
general  gravity  told  upon  her,  and  she  became 
conscious  of  what  Dinah  was  saying.  The  gen- 
tle tones,  the  loving  persuasion,  did  not  touch 
her;  but  when  the  more  severe  appeals  came, 
she  began  to  be  frightened.  Poor  Bessy  had 
always  been  considered  a  naughty  girl ;  she  was 
conscious  of  it;  if  it  was  necessary  to  be  very 
good,  it  was  clear  she  must  be  in  a  bad  way. 
She  could  n't  find  her  places  at  church  as  Sally 
Rann  could;  she  had  often  been  tittering  when 
she  "curcheyed"  to  Mr.  Irwine;  and  these  re- 
ligious deficiencies  were  accompanied  by  a  cor- 
responding slackness  in  the  minor  morals,  for 
Bessy  belonged  unquestionably  to  that  unsoaped, 
lazy  class  of  feminine  characters  with  whom  you 
may  venture  to  "eat  an  egg,  an  apple,  or  a  nut." 
All  this  she  was  generally  conscious  of,  and 
hitherto  had  not  been  greatly  ashamed  of  it. 
But  now  she  began  to  feel  very  much  as  if  the 
constable  had  come  to  take  her  up  and  carry  her 
before  the  justice  for  some  undefined  offence. 
She  had  a  terrified  sense  that  God,  whom  she  had 
always  thought  of  as  very  far  off,  was  very  near 


38  ADAM   BEDE 

to  her,  and  that  Jesus  was  close  by,  looking  at 
her,  though  she  could  not  see  him.  For  Dinah 
had  that  belief  in  visible  manifestations  of  Jesus 
which  is  common  among  the  Methodists,  and 
she  communicated  it  irresistibly  to  her  hearers; 
she  made  them  feel  that  he  was  among  them 
bodily,  and  might  at  any  moment  show  himself 
to  them  in  some  way  that  would  strike  anguish 
and  penitence  into  their  hearts. 

"See!"  she  exclaimed,  turning  to  the  left, 
with  her  eyes  fixed  on  a  point  above  the  heads 
of  the  people,  —  "see  where  our  blessed  Lord 
stands  and  weeps,  and  stretches  out  his  arms 
towards  you.  Hear  what  he  says:  'How  often 
would  I  have  gathered  you  as  a  hen  gath- 
ereth  her  chickens  under  her  wings,  and  ye 
would  not!'  .  .  .  and  ye  would  not,"  she  re- 
peated, in  a  tone  of  pleading  reproach,  turning 
her  eyes  on  the  people  again.  "  See  the  print  of 
the  nails  on  his  dear  hands  and  feet.  It  is  your 
sins  that  made  them!  Ah!  how  pale  and  worn 
he  looks!  He  has  gone  through  all  that  great 
agony  in  the  garden,  when  his  soul  was  exceed- 
ing sorrowful  even  unto  death,  and  the  great 
drops  of  sweat  fell  like  blood  to  the  ground. 
They  spat  upon  him  and  buft'eted  him,  they 
scourged  him,  they  mocked  him,  they  laid  the 
heavy  cross  on  his  bruised  shoulders.  Then 
they  nailed  him  up.  Ah!  what  pain!  His  lips 
are  parched  with  thirst,  and  they  mock  him  still 
in  this  great  agony;  yet  with  those  parched  lips 
he  prays  for  them, '  Father,  forgive  them,  for  they 
know  not  what  they  do.'  Then  a  horror  of 
great  darkness  fell  upon  him,  and  he  felt  what 
sinners  feel  when  they  are  forever  shut  out  from 


THE  PREACHING  39 

God.  That  was  the  last  drop  in  the  cup  of  bit- 
terness. 'My  God,  my  God!'  he  cries,  'why 
hast  Thou  forsaken  me  '^ ' 

"  All  this  he  bore  for  you !  For  you  —  and 
you  never  think  of  him ;  for  you  —  and  you  turn 
your  backs  on  him;  you  don't  care  what  he  has 
gone  through  for  you.  Yet  he  is  not  weary  of 
toiling  for  you;  he  has  risen  from  the  dead,  he  is 
praying  for  you  at  the  right  hand  of  God,  — 
'Father,  forgive  them,  for  they  know  not  what 
they  do.'  And  he  is  upon  this  earth  too;  he  is 
among  us;  he  is  there  close  to  you  now;  I  see 
his  wounded  body  and  his  look  of  love." 

Here  Dinah  turned  to  Bessy  Cranage,  whose 
bonny  youth  and  evident  vanity  had  touched  her 
with  pity. 

"Poor  child!  poor  child!  He  is  beseeching 
you,  and  you  don't  listen  to  him.  You  think  of 
ear-rings  and  fine  gowns  and  caps,  and  you  never 
think  of  the  Saviour  who  died  to  save  your  pre- 
cious soul.  Your  cheeks  will  be  shrivelled  one 
day,  your  hair  will  be  gray,  your  poor  body  will 
be  thin  and  tottering!  Then  you  will  begin  to 
feel  that  your  soul  is  not  saved;  then  you  will 
have  to  stand  before  God  dressed  in  your  sins, 
in  your  evil  tempers  and  vain  thoughts.  And 
Jesus,  who  stands  ready  to  help  you  now,  won't 
help  you  then;  because  you  won't  have  him  to 
be  your  Saviour,  he  will  be  your  judge.  Now 
he  looks  at  you  with  love  and  mercy,  and  says, 
'Come  to  me  that  you  may  have  life;'  then  he 
will  turn  away  from  you,  and  say,'  Depart  from 
me  into  everlasting  fire!"' 

Poor  Bessy's  wide-open  black  eyes  began  to 
fill   with  tears,  her  great  red   cheeks  and  lips 


40  ADAM   BEDE 

became  quite  pale,  and  her  face  was  distorted 
like  a  little  child's  before  a  burst  of  crying. 

"Ah!  poor  blind  child!"  Dinah  went  on, 
"  think  if  it  should  happen  to  you  as  it  once  hap- 
pened to  a  servant  of  God  in  the  days  of  her 
vanity.  She  thought  of  her  lace  caps,  and  saved 
all  her  money  to  buy  'em;  she  thought  nothing 
about  how  she  might  get  a  clean  heart  and  a 
right  spirit,  she  only  wanted  to  have  better  lace 
than  other  girls.  And  one  day  when  she  put  her 
new  cap  on  and  looked  in  the  glass,  she  saw  a 
bleeding  Face  crowned  with  thorns.  That  face 
is  looking  at  you  now,"  —  here  Dinah  pointed 
to  a  spot  close  in  front  of  Bessy.  "Ah!  tear  off 
those  follies ;  cast  them  away  from  you,  as  if  they 
were  stinging  adders.  They  are  stinging  you, 
—  they  are  poisoning  your  soul,  —  they  are 
dragging  you  down  into  a  dark  bottomless  pit, 
where  you  will  sink  forever  and  forever  and  for- 
ever, farther  away  from  light  and  God." 

Bessy  could  bear  it  no  longer;  a  great  terror 
was  upon  her,  and  wrenching  her  ear-rings  from 
her  ears,  she  threw  them  down  before  her,  sob- 
bing aloud.  Her  father,  Chad,  frightened  lest 
he  should  be  "laid  hold  on"  too,  this  impression 
on  the  rebellious  Bess  striking  him  as  nothing 
less  than  a  miracle,  walked  hastily  away,  and  be- 
gan to  work  at  his  anvil  by  way  of  reassuring 
himself.  "Folks  mun  ha'  hoss-shoes,  praichin' 
or  no  praichin' ;  the  divil  canna  lay  hould  o'  me 
for  that,"  he  muttered  to  himself. 

But  now  Dinah  began  to  tell  of  the  joys  that 
were  in  store  for  the  penitent,  and  to  describe  in 
her  simple  way  the  divine  peace  and  love  with 
which  the  soul  of  the  believer  is  filled,  —  how 


THE   PREACHING  41 

the  sense  of  God's  love  turns  poverty  into  riches, 
and  satisfies  the  soul,  so  that  no  uneasy  desire 
vexes  it,  no  fear  alarms  it;  how,  at  la^t,  the  very 
temptation  to  sin  is  extinguished,  and  heaven  is 
begun  upon  earth,  because  no  cloud  passes  be- 
tween the  soul  and  God,  who  is  its  eternal  sun. 

"Dear  friends,"  she  said  at  last,  "brothers 
and  sisters,  whom  I  love  as  those  for  whom  my 
Lord  has  died,  believe  me,  I  know  what  this 
great  blessedness  is;  and  because  I  know  it,  I 
want  you  to  have  it  too.  I  am  poor,  like  you;  I 
have  to  get  my  living  with  my  hands;  but  no 
lord  nor  lady  can  be  so  happy  as  me,  if  they 
have  n't  got  the  love  of  God  in  their  souls. 
Think  what  it  is,  —  not  to  hate  anything  but 
sin;  to  be  full  of  love  to  every  creature;  to  be 
frightened  at  nothing;  to  be  sure  that  all  things 
will  turn  to  good;  not  to  mind  pain,  because  it 
is  our  Father's  will;  to  know  that  nothing  — 
no,  not  if  the  earth  was  to  be  burnt  up,  or  the 
waters  come  and  drown  us  —  nothing  could 
part  us  from  God,  who  loves  us,  and  who  fills 
our  souls  with  peace  and  joy,  because  we  are 
sure  that  whatever  he  wills  is  holy,  just,  and 
good. 

"Dear  friends,  come  and  take  this  blessed- 
ness. It  is  offered  to  you;  it  is  the  good  news 
that  Jesus  came  to  preach  to  the  poor.  It  is  not 
like  the  riches  of  this  world,  so  that  the  more 
one  gets  the  less  the  rest  can  have.  God  is 
without  end;   his  love  is  without  end,  — 

'  Its  streams  the  whole  creation  reach, 
So  plenteous  is  the  store  ; 
}         Enough  for  all,  enough  for  each, 
^  Enough  forevermore.' " 


42  ADAM   BEDE 

Dinah  had  been  speaking  at  least  an  hour, 
and  the  reddening  Hght  of  the  parting  day 
seemed  to  give  a  solemn  emphasis  to  her  closing 
words.  The  stranger,  who  had  been  interested 
in  the  course  of  her  sermon,  as  if  it  had  been  the 
development  of  a  drama,  —  for  there  is  this 
sort  of  fascination  in  all  sincere  unpremeditated 
eloquence,  which  opens  to  one  the  inward  drama 
of  the  speaker's  emotions,  —  now  turned  his 
horse  aside,  and  pursued  his  way,  while  Dinah 
said,  "Let  us  sing  a  little,  dear  friends;"  and  as 
he  was  still  winding  down  the  slope,  the  voices 
of  the  Methodists  reached  him,  rising  and  falling 
in  that  strange  blending  of  exultation  and  sad- 
ness which  belongs  to  the  cadence  of  a  hymn. 


CHAPTER   III 

AFTER    THE    PREACHING 


IN  less  than  an  hour  from  that  time  Seth 
Bede  was  walking  by  Dinah's  side  along 
the  hedgerow- path  that  skirted  the  pas- 
tures and  green  cornfields  which  lay  between 
the  village  and  the  Hall  Farm.  Dinah  had  taken 
off  her  little  Quaker  bonnet  again,  and  was  hold- 
ing it  in  her  hands  that  she  might  have  a  freer 
enjoyment  of  the  cool  evening  twilight;  and 
Seth  could  see  the  expression  of  her  face  quite 
clearly  as  he  walked  by  her  side,  timidly  revolv- 
ing something  he  wanted  to  say  to  her.  It  was 
an  expression  of  unconscious  placid  gravity,  — 
of  absorption  in  thoughts  that  had  no  connection 
with  the  present  moment  or  with  her  own  per- 
sonality: an  expression  that  is  most  of  all  dis- 
couraging to  a  lover.  Her  very  walk  was 
discouraging:  it  had  that  quiet  elasticity  that 
asks  for  no  support.  Seth  felt  this  dimly.  He 
said  to  himself,  "  She's  too  good  and  holy  for  any 
man,  let  alone  me;"  and  the  words  he  had  been 
summoning  rushed  back  again  before  they  had 
reached  his  lips.  But  another  thought  gave  him 
courage:  "There's  no  man  could  love  her  better 
and  leave  her  freer  to  follow  the  Lord's  work." 
They  had  been  silent  for  many  minutes  now, 
since  they  had  done  talking  about  Bessy  Cran- 
age. Dinah  seemed  almost  to  have  forgotten 
Seth's  presence ;   and  her  pace  was  becoming  so 


44  ADAM   BEDE 

much  quicker  that  the  sense  of  their  being  only 
a  few  minutes'  walk  from  the  yard-gates  of  the 
Hall  Farm  at  last  gave  Seth  courage  to  speak. 

"You've  quite  made  up  your  mind  to  go  back 
to  Snowfield  o'  Saturday,  Dinah?" 

"Yes,"  said  Dinah,  quietly.  "I'm  called 
there.  It  was  borne  in  upon  my  mind  while  I 
was  meditating  on  Sunday  night,  as  Sister  Allen, 
who's  in  a  decline,  is  in  need  of  me.  I  saw  her 
as  plain  as  we  see  that  bit  of  thin  white  cloud, 
lifting  up  her  poor  thin  hand  and  beckoning  to 
me.  x\nd  this  morning  when  I  opened  the  Bible 
for  direction,  the  first  words  my  eyes  fell  on  were, 
'And  after  we  had  seen  the  vision,  immediately 
we  endeavoured  to  go  into  Macedonia.'  If  it 
was  n't  for  that  clear  showing  of  the  Lord's  will, 
I  should  be  loath  to  go;  for  my  heart  yearns 
over  my  aunt  and  her  little  ones,  and  that  poor 
wandering  lamb  Hetty  Sorrel.  I  've  been  much 
drawn  out  in  prayer  for  her  of  late,  and  I  look 
on  it  as  a  token  that  there  may  be  mercy  in  store 
for  her." 

"God  grant  it!"  said  Seth.  "For  I  doubt 
Adam's  heart  is  so  set  on  her,  he  '11  never  turn 
to  anybody  else;  and  yet  it  'ud  go  to  my  heart  if 
he  was  to  marry  her,  for  I  canna  think  as  she  'd 
make  him  happy.  It  's  a  deep  mystery,  —  the 
way  the  heart  of  man  turns  to  one  woman  out  of 
all  the  rest  he's  seen  i'  the  world,  and  makes  it 
easier  for  him  to  work  seven  year  for  her,  like 
Jacob  did  for  Rachel,  sooner  than  have  any 
other  woman  for  th'  asking.  I  often  think  of 
them  words,  'And  Jacob  served  seven  years  for 
Rachel ;  and  they  seemed  to  him  but  a  few  days 
for  the  love  he  had  to  her.'     I  know  those  words 


AFTER  THE  PREACHING  45 

ud  come  true  with  me,  Dinah,  if  so  be  you'd 
give  me  hope  as  I  might  win  you  after  seven 
years  was  over.  I  know  you  think  a  husband 
'ud  be  taking  up  too  much  o'  your  thoughts, 
because  Saint  Paul  says,  'She  that's  married 
careth  for  the  things  of  the  world  how  she  may 
please  her  husband;'  and  may  happen  you'll 
think  me  over-bold  to  speak  to  you  about  it 
again,  after  what  you  told  me  o'  your  mind  last 
Saturday.  But  I've  been  thinking  it  over  again 
by  night  and  by  day,  and  I've  prayed  not  to  be 
blinded  by  my  own  desires,  to  think  what's  only 
good  for  me  must  be  good  for  you  too.  And  it 
seems  to  me  there's  more  texts  for  your  marry- 
ing than  ever  you  can  find  against  it.  For  Saint 
Paul  says  as  plain  as  can  be  in  another  place, 
*  I  will  that  the  younger  women  marry,  bear  chil- 
dren, guide  the  house,  give  none  occasion  to  the 
adversary  to  speak  reproachfully; '  and  then 
'two  are  better  than  one;'  and  that  holds  good 
with  marriage  as  well  as  with  other  things.  For 
we  should  be  o'  one  heart  and  o'  one  mind, 
Dinah.  We  both  serve  the  same  Master,  and 
are  striving  after  the  same  gifts;  and  I'd  never 
be  the  husband  to  make  a  claim  on  you  as  could 
interfere  with  your  doing  the  work  God  has 
fitted  you  for.  I'd  make  a  shift,  and  fend  in- 
door and  out,  to  give  you  more  liberty,  —  more 
than  you  can  have  now,  for  you've  got  to  get 
your  own  living  now,  and  I'm  strong  enough  to 
work  for  us  both." 

When  Seth  had  once  begun  to  urge  his  suit, 
he  went  on  earnestly,  and  almost  hurriedly,  lest 
Dinah  should  speak  some  decisive  word  before 
he  had  poured  forth  all  the  arguments  he  had 


46  ADAM   BEDE 

prepared.  His  cheeks  became  flushed  as  he 
went  on,  his  mild  gray  eyes  filled  with  tears, 
and  his  voice  trembled  as  he  spoke  the  last  sen- 
tence. They  had  reached  one  of  those  very 
narrow  passes  between  two  tall  stones  which 
performed  the  office  of  a  stile  in  Loamshire; 
and  Dinah  paused  as  she  turned  towards  Seth, 
and  said,  in  her  tender  but  calm  treble  notes,  — 
"  Seth  Bede,  I  thank  you  for  your  love  towards 
me;  and  if  I  could  think  of  any  man  as  more 
than  a  Christian  brother,  I  think  it  would  be 
you.  But  my  heart  is  not  free  to  marry.  That 
is  good  for  other  women,  and  it  is  a  great  and 
a  blessed  thing  to  be  a  wife  and  mother;  but 
'as  God  has  distributed  to  every  man,  as  the 
Lord  hath  called  every  man,  so  let  him  walk.' 
God  has  called  me  to  minister  to  others,  —  not 
to  have  any  joys  or  sorrows  of  my  own,  but  to 
rejoice  with  them  that  do  rejoice,  and  to  weep 
with  those  that  weep.  He  has  called  me  to  speak 
his  word,  and  he  has  greatly  owned  my  work. 
It  could  only  be  on  a  very  clear  showing  that 
I  could  leave  the  brethren  and  sisters  at  Snow- 
field,  who  are  favoured  with  very  little  of  this 
world's  good;  where  the  trees  are  few,  so  that 
a  child  might  count  them,  and  there's  very  hard 
living  for  the  poor  in  the  winter.  It  has  been 
given  me  to  help,  to  comfort,  and  strengthen 
the  little  flock  there,  and  to  call  in  many  wan- 
derers; and  my  soul  is  filled  with  these  things 
from  my  rising  up  till  my  lying  down.  My  life 
is  too  short,  and  God's  work  is  too  great  for  me 
to  think  of  making  a  home  for  myself  in  this 
world.  I've  not  turned  a  deaf  ear  to  your 
words,  Seth;   for  when  I  saw  as  your  love  was 


'  AFTER   THE   PREACHING  47 

given  to  me,  I  thought  it  might  be  a  leading  of 
Providence  for  me  to  change  my  way  of  life, 
and  that  we  should  be  fellow-helpers;  and  I 
spread  the  matter  before  the  Lord.  But  when- 
ever I  tried  to  fix  my  mind  on  marriage,  and  our 
living  together,  other  thoughts  always  came  in, 
—  the  times  when  I  've  prayed  by  the  sick  and 
dying,  and  the  happy  hours  I've  had  preaching, 
when  my  heart  was  filled  with  love,  and  the 
Word  was  given  to  me  abundantly.  And  when 
I've  opened  the  Bible  for  direction,  I've  always 
lighted  on  some  clear  word  to  tell  me  where  my 
work  lay.  I  believe  what  you  say,  Seth,  that 
you  would  try  to  be  a  help  and  not  a  hindrance 
to  my  work;  but  I  see  that  our  marriage  is  not 
God's  will.  He  draws  my  heart  another  way. 
I  desire  to  live  and  die  without  husband  or  chil- 
dren. I  seem  to  have  no  room  in  my  soul  for 
wants  and  fears  of  my  own,  it  has  pleased  God 
to  fill  my  heart  so  full  with  the  wants  and  suffer- 
ings of  his  poor  people," 

Seth  was  unable  to  reply,  and  they  walked  on 
in  silence.  At  last,  as  they  were  nearly  at  the 
the  yard-gate,  he  said,  — 

"Well,  Dinah,  I  must  seek  for  strength  to 
bear  it,  and  to  endure  as  seeing  Him  who  is 
invisible.  But  I  feel  now  how  weak  my  faith 
is.  It  seems  as  if,  when  you  are  gone,  I  could 
never  joy  in  anything  any  more.  I  think  it's 
something  passing  the  love  of  women  as  I  feel 
for  you,  for  I  could  be  content  without  your 
marrying  me  if  I  could  go  and  live  at  Snowfield 
and  be  near  you.  I  trusted  as  the  strong  love 
God  had  given  me  towards  you  was  a  leading 
for  us  both;   but  it  seems  it  was  only  meant  for 


48  ADAM   BEDE 

my  trial.  Perhaps  I  feel  more  for  you  than  I 
ought  to  feel  for  any  creature,  for  I  often  can't 
help  saying  of  you  what  the  hymn  says,  — 

'  In  darkest  shades  if  she  appear, 
My  dawning  is  begun  ; 
She  is  my  soul's  bright  morning-star. 
And  she  my  rising  sun.' 

That  may  be  wrong,  and  I  am  to  be  taught 
better.  But  you  would  n't  be  displeased  with 
me  if  things  turned  out  so  as  I  could  leave  this 
country  and  go  to  live  at  Snowfield.^" 

"No,  Seth;  but  I  counsel  you  to  wait  pa- 
tiently, and  not  lightly  to  leave  your  own 
country  and  kindred.  Do  nothing  without 
the  Lord's  clear  bidding.  It's  a  bleak  and  bar- 
ren country  there,  not  like  this  land  of  Goshen 
you've  been  used  to.  We  must  n't  be  in  a  hurry 
to  fix  and  choose  our  own  lot;  we  must  wait  to 
be  guided." 

"But  you'd  let  me  write  you  a  letter,  Dinah, 
if  there  was  anything  I  wanted  to  tell  you.'*" 

"Yes,  sure;  let  me  know  if  you're  in  any 
trouble.     You'll  be  continually  in  my  prayers." 

They  had  now  reached  the  yard -gate,  and 
Seth  said,  "I  won't  go  in,  Dinah;  so  farewell." 
He  paused  and  hesitated  after  she  had  given 
him  her  hand,  and  then  said,  "There's  no 
knowing  but  what  you  may  see  things  different 
after  a  while.     There  may  be  a  new  leading." 

"Let  us  leave  that,  Seth.  It's  good  to  live 
only  a  moment  at  a  time,  as  I've  read  in  one  of 
Mr.  Wesley's  books.  It  is  n't  for  you  and  me 
to  lay  plans;  we've  nothing  to  do  but  to  obey 
and  to  trust.     Farewell." 


AFTER  THE  PREACHING  49 

Dinah  pressed  his  hand  with  rather  a  sad  look 
in  her  loving  eyes,  and  then  passed  through  the 
gate,  while  Setli  turned  away  to  walk  lingeringly 
home.  But  instead  of  taking  the  direct  road, 
he  chose  to  turn  back  along  the  fields  through 
which  he  and  Dinah  had  already  passed;  and 
I  think  his  blue  linen  handkerchief  was  very 
wet  with  tears  long  before  he  had  made  up  his 
mind  that  it  was  time  for  him  to  set  his  face 
steadily  homewards.  He  was  but  three-and- 
twenty,  and  had  only  just  learned  what  it  is  to 
love,  —  to  love  with  that  adoration  which  a 
young  man  gives  to  a  woman  whom  he  feels  to 
be  greater  and  better  than  himself.  Love  of 
this  sort  is  hardly  distinguishable  from  religious 
feeling.  What  deep  and  worthy  love  is  so, 
whether  of  woman  or  child,  or  art  or  music  .^^ 
Our  caresses,  our  tender  words,  our  still  rap- 
ture, under  th,^  influence  of  autumn  sunsets  or 
pillared  vistas  or  calm  majestic  statues  or  Bee- 
thoven symphonies,  all  bring  with  them  the  con- 
sciousness that  they  are  mere  waves  and  ripples 
in  an  unfathomable  ocean  of  love  and  beauty; 
our  emotion  in  its  keenest  moment  passes  from 
expression  into  silence;  our  love  at  its  highest 
flood  rushes  beyond  its  object,  and  loses  itself 
in  the  sense  of  divine  mystery.  And  this 
blessed  gift  of  venerating  love  has  been  given  to 
too  many  humble  craftsmen  since  the  world 
began,  for  us  to  feel  any  surprise  that  it  should 
have  existed  in  the  soul  of  a  Methodist  carpenter 
half  a  century  ago,  while  there  was  yet  a  linger- 
ing afterglow  from  the  time  when  Wesley  and 
his  fellow  labourer  fed  on  the  hips  and  haws  of 
the  Cornwall  hedges,  after  exhausting  limbs  and 

VOL.  I — 4 


50  ADAM   BEDE 

lungs  in  carrying  a  divine  message  to  the 
poor. 

That  afterglow  has  long  faded  away ;  and  the 
picture  we  are  apt  to  make  of  Methodism  in  our 
imagination  is  not  an  amphitheatre  of  green 
hills,  or  the  deep  shade  of  broad-leaved  syca- 
mores, where  a  crowd  of  rough  men  and  weary- 
hearted  women  drank  in  a  faith  which  was  a 
rudimentary  culture  which  linked  their  thoughts 
with  the  past,  lifted  their  imagination  above  the 
sordid  details  of  their  own  narrow  lives,  and 
suifused  their  souls  with  the  sense  of  a  pitying, 
loving,  infinite  Presence,  sweet  as  summer  to 
the  houseless  needy.  It  is  too  possible  that  to 
some  of  my  readers  Methodism  may  mean  noth- 
ing more  than  low-pitched  gables  up  dingy 
streets,  sleek  grocers,  sponging  preachers,  and 
hypocritical  jargon,  —  elements  which  are  re- 
garded as  an  exhaustive  analysis  of  Methodism 
in  many  fashionable  quarters. 

That  would  be  a  pity;  for  I  cannot  pretend 
that  Seth  and  Dinah  were  anything  else  than 
Methodists,  —  not  indeed  of  that  modern  type 
which  reads  quarterly  reviews  and  attends  in 
chapels  with  pillared  porticos,  but  of  a  very  old- 
fashioned  kind.  They  believed  in  present  mir- 
acles, in  instantaneous  conversions,  in  revela- 
tions by  dreams  and  visions;  they  drew  lots, 
and  sought  for  Divine  guidance  by  opening  the 
Bible  at  hazard;  having  a  literal  way  of  inter- 
preting the  Scriptures,  which  is  not  at  all  sanc- 
tioned by  approved  commentators;  and  it  is 
impossible  for  me  to  represent  their  diction  as 
correct,  or  their  instruction  as  liberal.  Still  — 
if  I  have  read  religious  history  aright  —  faith. 


AFTER   THE   PREACHING  51 

hope,  and  charity  have  not  always  been  found 
in  a  direct  ratio  with  a  sensibility  to  the  three 
concords;  and  it  is  possible,  thank  Heaven!  to 
have  very  erroneous  theories  and  very  sublime 
feelings.  The  raw  bacon  which  clumsy  Molly 
spares  from  her  own  scanty  store,  that  she  may 
carry  it  to  her  neighbour's  child  to  "stop  the 
fits,"  may  be  a  piteously  inefficacious  remedy; 
but  the  generous  stirring  of  neighbourly  kind- 
ness that  prompted  the  deed  has  a  beneficent 
radiation  that  is  not  lost. 

Considering  these  things,  we  can  hardly  think 
Dinah  and  Seth  beneath  our  sympathy,  accus- 
tomed as  we  may  be  to  weep  over  the  loftier 
sorrows  of  heroines  in  satin  boots  and  crinoline, 
and  of  heroes  riding  fiery  horses,  themselves 
ridden  by  still  more  fiery  passions. 

Poor  Seth!  he  was  never  on  horseback  in  his 
life  except  once,  when  he  was  a  little  lad,  and 
Mr.  Jonathan  Burge  took  him  up  behind,  tell- 
ing him  to  "hold  on  tight;"  and  instead  of  burst- 
ing out  into  wild,  accusing  apostrophes  to  God 
and  destiny,  he  is  resolving,  as  he  now  walks 
homeward  under  the  solemn  starlight,  to  re- 
press his  sadness,  to  be  less  bent  on  having  his 
own  will,  and  to  live  more  for  others,  as  Dinah 
does. 


CHAPTER   IV 

HOME   AND    ITS   SORROWS 


A  GREEN  valley  with  a  brook  running 
through  it,  full  almost  to  overflowing 
with  the  late  rains;  overhung  by  low- 
stooping  willows.  Across  this  brook  a  plank  is 
thrown,  and  over  this  plank  Adam  Bede  is  pass- 
ing with  his  undoubting  step,  followed  close  by 
Gyp  with  the  basket;  evidently  making  his  way 
to  the  thatched  house,  with  a  stack  of  timber 
by  the  side  of  it,  about  twenty  yards  up  the 
opposite  slope. 

The  door  of  the  house  is  open,  and  an  elderly 
woman  is  looking  out;  but  she  is  not  placidly 
contemplating  the  evening  sunshine;  she  has 
been  watching  with  dim  eyes  the  gradually  en- 
larging speck  which  for  the  last  few  minutes  she 
has  been  quite  sure  is  her  darling  son  Adam. 
Lisbeth  Bede  loves  her  son  with  the  love  of  a 
woman  to  whom  her  first-born  has  come  late 
in  life.  She  is  an  anxious,  spare,  yet  vigorous 
old  woman,  clean  as  a  snowdrop.  Her  gray 
hair  is  turned  neatly  back  under  a  pure  linen 
cap  with  a  black  band  round  it;  her  broad  chest 
is  covered  with  a  buff  neckerchief,  and  below 
this  you  see  a  sort  of  short  bed-gown  made  of 
blue-checkered  linen,  tied  round  the  waist  and 
descending  to  the  hips,  from  whence  there  is  a 
considerable  length  of  linsey-woolsey  petticoat. 
For  Lisbeth  is  tall,  and  in  other  points  too  there 


HOME   AND   ITS  SORROWS        5S 

is  a  strong  likeness  between  her  and  her  son 
Adam.     Her  dark  eyes  are  somewhat  dim  now, 

—  perhaps  from  too  much  crying,  —  but  her 
broadly  marked  eyebrows  are  still  black,  her 
teeth  are  sound,  and  as  she  stands  knitting 
rapidly  and  unconsciously  with  her  work-har- 
dened hands,  she  has  as  firmly  upright  an  atti- 
tude as  when  she  is  carrying  a  pail  of  water  on 
her  head  from  the  spring.  There  is  the  same 
type  of  frame  and  the  same  keen  activity  of 
temperament  in  mother  and  son,  but  it  was  not 
from  her  that  Adam  got  his  well-filled  brow  and 
his  expression  of  large-hearted  intelligence. 

Family  likeness  has  often  a  deep  sadness  in  it. 
Nature,  that  great  tragic  dramatist,  knits  us  to- 
gether by  bone  and  muscle,  and  divides  us  by 
the  subtler  web  of  our  brains ;  blends  yearning 
and  repulsion,  and  ties  us  by  our  heart-strings 
to  the  beings  that  jar  us  at  every  movement. 
We  hear  a  voice  with  the  very  cadence  of  our 
ow^n  uttering  the  thoughts  we  despise;  we  see 
eyes  —  ah !  so  like  our  mother's  —  averted  from 
us  in  cold  alienation;  and  our  last  darling  child 
startles  us  with  the  air  and  gestures  of  the  sister 
we  parted  from  in  bitterness  long  years  ago. 
The  father  to  whom  we  owe  our  best  heritage 

—  the  mechanical  instinct,  the  keen  sensibility 
to  harmony,  the  unconscious  skill  of  the  model- 
ling hand  —  galls  us,  and  puts  us  to  shame  by 
his  daily  errors;  the  long- lost  mother,  whose  face 
we  begin  to  see  in  the  glass  as  our  own  wrinkles 
come,  once  fretted  our  young  souls  with  her 
anxious  humours  and  irrational  persistence. 

It  is  such  a  fond,  anxious  mother's  voice  that 
you  hear,  as  Lisbeth  says,  — 


54  ADAM   BEDE 

"Well,  my  lad,  it's  gone  seven  by  th'  clock. 
Thee  't  allays  stay  till  the  last  child's  born. 
Thee  wants  thy  supper,  I'll  warrand.  Where's 
Seth  ?  Gone  arter  some  o'  's  chapellin',  I 
reckon?" 

"Ay,  ay,  Seth's  at  no  harm,  mother,  thee 
mayst  be  sure.  But  where's  father?"  said 
Adam  quickly,  as  he  entered  the  house  and 
oflanced  into  the  room  on  the  left  hand,  which 
was  used  as  a  workshop.  "  Has  n  t  he  done 
the  coffin  for  Tholer?  There's  the  stuff  stand- 
ing just  as  I  left  it  this  morning." 

"Done  the  coffin?"  said  Lisbeth,  following 
him,  and  knitting  uninterruptedly,  though  she 
looked  at  her  son  very  anxiously.  "Eh,  my 
lad,  he  went  aff  to  Treddles'on  this  forenoon, 
an'  's  niver  come  back.  I  doubt  he's  got  to  th' 
'Waggin  Overthrow'  again." 

A  deep  flush  of  anger  passed  rapidly  over 
Adam's  face.  He  said  nothing,  but  threw  off 
his  jacket,  and  began  to  roll  up  his  shirt-sleeves 
again. 

"What  art  goin'  to  do,  Adam?"  said  the 
mother,  with  a  tone  and  look  of  alarm.  "  Thee 
wouldstna  go  to  work  again,  wi'out  ha'in'  thy 
bit  o'  supper?" 

Adam,  too  angry  to  speak,  walked  into  the 
workshop.  But  his  mother  threw  down  her 
knitting,  and  hurrying  after  him,  took  hold  of 
his  arm,  and  said,  in  a  tone  of  plaintive  remon- 
strance, — 

"Nay,  my  lad,  my  lad,  thee  munna  go  wi'out 
thy  supper;  there's  the  taters  wi'  the  gravy  in 
'em,  just  as  thee  lik'st  'em.  T  saved  'em  o'  pur- 
pose for  thee.     Come  an'  ha'  thy  supper,  come ! ' ' 


HOME   AND   ITS   SORROWS        55 

"Let  be!"  said  Adam  impetuously,  shaking 
her  off,  and  seizing  one  of  the  planks  that  stood 
against  the  wall.  "It's  fine  talking  about  hav- 
ing supper  when  here's  a  coffin  promised  to  be 
ready  at  Brox'on  by  seven  o'clock  to-morrow 
morning,  and  ought  to  ha'  been  there  now,  and 
not  a  nail  struck  yet.  My  throat's  too  full  to 
swallow  victuals." 

"Why,  thee  canstna  get  the  coffin  ready," 
said  Lisbeth.  "Thee't  work  thyself  to  death. 
It  'ud  take  thee  all  night  to  do  't." 

"  What  signifies  how  long  it  takes  me  ?  Is  n't 
the  coffin  promised  ?  Can  tliey  bury  the  man 
without  a  coffin.^  I'd  work  my  right  hand 
off  sooner  than  deceive  people  with  lies  i'  that 
way.  It  makes  me  mad  to  think  on't.  I  shall 
overrun  these  doings  before  long.  I've  stood 
enough  of  'em." 

Poor  Lisbeth  did  not  hear  this  threat  for  the 
first  time,  and  if  she  had  been  wise  she  would 
have  gone  away  quietly,  and  said  nothing  for 
the  next  hour.  But  one  of  the  lessons  a  woman 
most  rarely  learns  is  never  to  talk  to  an  angry 
or  a  drunken  man.  Lisbeth  sat  down  on  the 
chopping- bench  and  began  to  cry,  and  by  the 
time  she  had  cried  enough  to  make  her  voice 
very  piteous,  she  burst  out  into  words. 

"Nay,  my  lad,  my  lad,  thee  wouldstna  go 
away  an'  break  thy  mother's  heart,  an'  leave 
thy  feyther  to  ruin.  Thee  wouldstna  ha'  'em 
carry  me  to  tli'  churchyard,  an'  thee  not  to  fol- 
low me.  I  shanna  rest  i'  my  grave  if  I  donna 
see  thee  at  th'  last;  an'  how's  they  to  let  thee 
know  as  I'm  a-dyin',  if  thee't  gone  a-workin'  i' 
distant  parts,  an'  Seth  belike  gone  arter  thee, 


56  ADAM   BEDE 

and  thy  feyther  not  able  to  hold  a  pen  for's 
hand  shakin',  besides  not  knowin'  where  thee 
art  ?  Thee  mun  forgie  thy  feyther,  —  thee 
munna  be  so  bitter  again'  him.  He  war  a  good 
feyther  to  thee  afore  he  took  to  th'  drink.  He's 
a  clever  workman,  an'  taught  thee  thy  trade, 
remember,  an'  's  niver  gen  me  a  blow,  nor  so 
much  as  an  ill  word,  —  no,  not  even  in  's  drink. 
Thee  wouldstna  ha'  'm  go  to  the  workhus,  — 
thy  own  feyther,  —  an'  him  as  was  a  fine-growed 
man,  an'  handy  at  everythin'  a'most  as  thee  art 
thysen,  five-an'-twenty  'ear  ago,  when  thee  wast 
a  baby  at  the  breast." 

Lisbeth's  voice  became  louder,  and  choked 
with  sobs,  —  a  sort  of  wail,  the  most  irritating 
of  all  sounds  where  real  sorrows  are  to  be  borne, 
and  real  work  to  be  done.  Adam  broke  in 
impatiently:  — 

"  Now,  mother,  don't  cry  and  talk  so. 
Have  n't  I  got  enough  to  vex  me  without  that  ? 
What's  th'  use  o'  telling  me  things  as  I  only 
think  too  much  on  every  day  ?  If  I  didna 
think  on  'em,  why  should  I  do  as  I  do,  for  the 
sake  o'  keeping  things  together  here  ?  But  I 
hate  to  be  talking  where  it's  no  use;  I  like  to 
keep  my  breath  for  doing  istead  o'  talking." 

"  I  know  thee  dost  things  as  nobody  else  'ud 
do,  my  lad.  But  thee't  allays  so  hard  upo'  thy 
feyther,  Adam.  Thee  think'st  nothing  too  much 
to  do  for  Seth;  thee  snapp'st  me  up  if  iver  I 
find  faut  wi'  th'  lad.  But  thee't  so  angered  wi' 
thy  feyther,  more  nor  wi'  anybody  else." 

"That's  better  than  speaking  soft,  and  let- 
ting things  go  the  WTong  way,  I  reckon,  is  n't 
it  ?     If  I  was  n't  sharp  with  him,  he'd  sell  every 


HOME  AND   ITS   SORROWS        57 

bit  o'  stuff  i'  th'  yard,  and  spend  it  on  drink.  I 
know  there's  a  duty  to  be  done  by  my  father, 
but  it  is  n't  my  duty  to  encourage  him  in  run- 
ning headlong  to  ruin.  And  what  has  Seth  got 
to  do  with  it  ?  The  lad  does  no  harm  as  I  know 
of.  But  leave  me  alone,  mother,  and  let  me  get 
on  with  the  work." 

Lisbeth  dared  not  say  any  more;  but  she  got 
up  and  called  Gyp,  thinking  to  console  herself 
somewhat  for  Adam's  refusal  of  the  supper  she 
had  spread  out  in  the  loving  expectation  of  look- 
ing at  him  while  he  ate  it,  by  feeding  Adam's  dog 
with  extra  liberality.  But  Gyp  was  watching 
his  master  with  wrinkled  brow  and  ears  erect, 
puzzled  at  this  unusual  course  of  things;  and 
though  he  glanced  at  Lisbeth  when  she  called 
him,  and  moved  his  forepaws  uneasily,  well 
knowing  that  she  was  inviting  him  to  supper, 
he  was  in  a  divided  state  of  mind,  and  remained 
seated  on  his  haunches,  again  fixing  his  eyes 
anxiously  on  his  master.  Adam  noticed  Gyp's 
mental  conflict;  and  though  his  anger  had  made 
him  less  tender  than  usual  to  his  mother,  it  did 
not  prevent  him  from  caring  as  much  as  usual 
for  his  dog.  We  are  apt  to  be  kinder  to  the 
brutes  that  love  us  than  to  the  women  that  love 
us.     Is  it  because  the  brutes  are  dumb  ? 

"Go,  Gyp!  go,  lad!"  Adam  said,  in  a  tone 
of  encouraging  command;  and  Gyp,  appar- 
ently satisfied  that  duty  and  pleasure  were  one, 
followed  Lisbeth  into  the  house- place. 

But  no  sooner  had  he  licked  up  his  supper 
than  he  went  back  to  his  master,  while  Lis- 
beth sat  down  alone  to  cry  over  her  knitting. 
Women  who  are  never  bitter  and  resentful  are 


58  ADAM   BEDE 

often  the  most  querulous;  and  if  Solomon  was 
as  wise  as  he  is  reputed  to  be,  I  feel  sure  that 
when  he  compared  a  contentious  woman  to  a 
continual  dropping  on  a  very  rainy  day,  he  had 
not  a  vixen  in  his  eye,  —  a  fury  with  long  nails, 
acrid  and  selfish.  Depend  upon  it,  he  meant  a 
good  creature,  who  had  no  joy  but  in  the  hap- 
piness of  the  loved  ones  whom  she  contributed 
to  make  uncomfortable,  putting  by  all  the  tid 
bits  for  them,  and  spending  nothing  on  herself; 
such  a  woman  as  Lisbeth,  for  example,  —  at 
once  patient  and  complaining,  self-renouncing 
and  exacting,  brooding  the  livelong  day  over 
what  happened  yesterday,  and  what  is  likely 
to  happen  to-morrow,  and  crying  very  readily 
both  at  the  good  and  the  evil.  But  a  certain 
awe  mingled  itself  with  her  idolatrous  love  of 
Adam,  and  when  he  said,  "Leave  me  alone," 
she  was  always  silenced. 

So  the  hours  passed,  to  the  loud  ticking  of  the 
old  day-clock  and  the  sound  of  Adam's  tools. 
At  last  he  called  for  a  light  and  a  draught  of 
water  (beer  was  a  thing  only  to  be  drunk  on 
holidays),  and  Lisbeth  ventured  to  say  as  she 
took  it  in,  "Thy  supper  stan's  ready  for  thee, 
when  thee  lik'st." 

"Donna  thee  sit  up,  mother,"  said  Adam,  in 
a  gentle  tone.  He  had  worked  off  his  anger 
now,  and  whenever  he  wished  to  be  especially 
kind  to  his  mother,  he  fell  into  his  strongest 
native  accent  and  dialect,  with  which  at  other 
times  his  speech  was  less  deeply  tinged.  "I'll 
see  to  father  when  he  coines  home;  maybe  he 
wonna  come  at  all  to-night.  I  shall  be  easier 
if  thee  't  i'  bed." 


HOME   AND   ITS   SORROWS        59 

"Nay,  I'll  bide  till  Seth  comes.     He  wonna 
be  long  now,  I  reckon." 

It  was  then  past  nine  by  the  clock,  which 
was  always  in  advance  of  the  day;  and  before 
it  had  struck  ten  the  latch  was  lifted,  and  Seth 
entered.  He  had  heard  the  sound  of  the  tools 
as  he  was  approaching. 

"Why,  mother,"  he  said,  "how  is  it  as 
father's  working  so  late.^" 

"It's  none  o'  thy  feyther  as  is  a-workin', — 
thee  might  know  that  well  anoof  if  thy  head 
warna  full  o'  chapellin',  —  it's  thy  brother  as 
does  iverything,  for  there's  niver  nobody  else 
i'  th'  way  to  do  nothin'." 

Lisbeth  was  going  on;  for  she  was  not  at  all 
afraid  of  Seth,  and  usually  poured  into  his  ears 
all  the  querulousness  which  was  repressed  by 
her  awe  of  Adam.  Seth  had  never  in  his  life 
spoken  a  harsh  word  to  his  mother,  and  timid 
people  always  wreak  their  peevishness  on  the 
gentle.  But  Seth,  with  an  anxious  look,  had 
passed  into  the  workshop  and  said,  — 

"Addy,  how's  this  .^  What!  father's  forgot 
the  coffin?" 

"Ay,  lad,  th'  old  tale;  but  I  shall  get  it 
done,"  said  Adam,  looking  up,  and  casting- 
one  of  his  bright,  keen  glances  at  his  brother. 
"Why,  what's  the  matter  with  thee.^  Thee't 
in  trouble." 

Seth's  eyes  were  red,  and  there  was  a  look 
of  deep  depression  on  his  mild  face. 

"Yes,  Addy;  but  it's  what  must  be  borne, 
and  can't  be  helped.  Why,  thee'st  never  been 
to  the  school,  then.^" 

"School.?  No;  that  screw  can  wait,"  said 
Adam,  hammering  away  again. 


60  ADAM   BEDE 

"  Let  me  take  my  tm-n  now,  and  do  thee  go  to 
bed,"  said  Seth. 

"No,  lad,  I'd  rather  go  on,  now  I'm  in  har- 
ness. Thee't  help  me  to  carry  it  to  Brox'on 
when  it's  done.  I'll  call  thee  up  at  sunrise. 
Go  and  eat  thy  supper,  and  shut  the  door,  so 
as  I  may  n't  hear  mother's  talk." 

Seth  knew  that  Adam  always  meant  what 
he  said,  and  was  not  to  be  persuaded  into  mean- 
ing anything  else.  So  he  turned,  with  rather 
a  heavy  heart,  into  the  house- place. 

"Adam's  niver  touched  a  bit  o'  victual  sin' 
home  he's  come,"  said  Lisbeth.  "I  reckon 
thee'st  hed  thy  supper  at  some  o'  thy  Methody 
folks." 

"Nay,  mother,"  said  Seth,  "I've  had  no 
supper  yet." 

"Come,  then,"  said  Lisbeth;  "but  donna 
thee  ate  the  taters,  for  Adam  'uU  happen  ate 
'em  if  I  leave  'em  stannin'.  He  loves  a'  bit  o' 
taters  an'  gravy.  But  he's  been  so  sore  an' 
angered,  he  would  n't  ate  'em,  for  all  I'd  putten 
'em  by  o'  purpose  for  him.  An'  he's  been 
a-threatenin'  to  go  away  again,"  she  went  on, 
whimpering,  "an'  I'm  fast  sure  he'll  go  some 
dawnin'  afore  I'm  up,  an'  niver  let  me  know 
aforehand,  an'  he'll  niver  come  back  again  when 
once  he's  gone.  An'  I'd  better  niver  ha'  had  a 
son,  as  is  like  no  other  body's  son  for  the  deft- 
ness an'  th'  handiness,  an'  so  looked  on  by  th' 
grit  folks,  an'  tall  an'  upright  like  a  poplar- 
tree,  an'  me  to  be  parted  from  him,  an'  niver 
see  'm  no  more." 

"Come,  mother,  donna  grieve  thyself  in 
vain,"  said  Seth,  in  a  soothing  voice.     "Thee'st 


HOME  AND   ITS   SORROWS        61 

not  half  so  good  reason  to  think  as  Adam  'ull  go 
away  as  to  think  he'll  stay  with  thee.  He  may 
say  such  a  thing  when  he's  in  wrath,  —  and 
he 's  got  excuse  for  being  wrathful  sometimes, — 
but  his  heart  'ud  never  let  him  go.  Think 
how  he's  stood  by  us  all  when  it's  been  none 
so  easy,  —  paying  his  savings  to  free  me  from 
going  for  a  soldier,  an'  turnin'  his  earnin's  into 
wood  for  father,  when  he's  got  plenty  o'  uses 
for  his  money,  and  many  a  young  man  like 
him  'ud  ha'  been  married  and  settled  before 
now.  He'll  never  turn  round  and  knockdown 
his  own  work,  and  forsake  them  as  it's  been  the 
labour  of  his  life  to  stand  by." 

"Donna  talk  to  me  about 's  marr'in',"  said 
Lisbeth,  crying  afresh.  "He's  set's  heart  on 
that  Hetty  Sorrel,  as  'ull  niver  save  a  penny,  an' 
'ull  toss  up  her  head  at's  old  mother.  An'  to 
think  as  he  might  ha'  Mary  Burge,  an'  be  took 
partners,  an'  be  a  big  man  wi'  workmen  under 
him,  like  Mester  Burge, — Dolly's  told  me  so 
o'er  and  o'er  again,  —  if  it  warna  as  he's  set's 
heart  on  that  bit  of  a  wench,  as  is  o'  no  more 
use  nor  the  gillyflower  on  the  wall.  An'  he  so 
wise  at  bookin'  an'  figurin',  an'  not  to  know 
no  better  nor  that!" 

"  But,  mother,  thee  know'st  we  canna  love  just 
where  other  folks  'ud  have  us.  There's  nobody 
but  God  can  control  the  heart  of  man.  I  could 
ha'  wished  myself  as  Adam  could  ha'  made  an- 
other choice,  but  I  would  n't  reproach  him  for 
what  he  can't  help.  And  I'm  not  sure  but  what 
he  tries  to  o'ercome  it.  But  it's  a  matter  as  he 
does  n't  like  to  be  spoke  to  about,  and  I  can 
only  pray  to  the  Lord  to  bless  and  direct  him." 


62  ADAM   BEDE 

"Ay,  thee't  allays  ready  enough  at  prayin', 
but  I  donna  see  as  thee  gets  much  wi'  thj 
prayin'.  Thee  wotna  get  double  earnin's  o' 
this  side  Yule.  Th'  Methodies  '11  niver  make 
thee  half  the  man  thy  brother  is,  for  all  they're 
a-makin'  a  preacher  on  thee." 

"It's  partly  truth  thee  speak'st  there, 
mother,"  said  Seth,  mildly;  "Adam  's  far  be- 
fore me,  an'  's  done  more  for  me  than  I  can 
ever  do  for  him.  God  distributes  talents  to 
every  man  according  as  he  sees  good.  But  thee 
mustna  undervally  prayer.  Prayer  mayna  bring 
money,  but  it  brings  us  what  no  money  can 
buy,  —  a  power  to  keep  from  sin,  and  be  con- 
tent with  God's  will,  whatever  he  may  please  to 
send.  If  thee  wouldst  pray  to  God  to  help 
thee,  and  trust  in  his  goodness,  thee  wouldstna 
be  so  uneasy  about  things." 

"Unaisy.?  I'm  i'  th'  right  on't  to  be  unaisy. 
It's  well  seen  on  thee  what  it  is  niver  to  be 
unaisy.  Thee't  gi'  away  all  thy  earnin's, 
an'  niver  be  unaisy  as  thee'st  nothin'  laid 
up  again'  a  rainy  day.  If  Adam  had  been 
as  aisy  as  thee,  he'd  niver  ha'  had  no 
money  to  pay  for  thee.  Take  no  thought  for 
the  morrow,  ^ — ^  take  no  thought,  —  that's 
what  thee  't  allays  sayin';  an'  what  comes 
on't.^  Why,  as  Adam  has  to  take  thought 
for  thee." 

"Those  are  the  words  o'  the  Bible,  mother," 
said  Seth.  "They  don't  mean  as  we  should 
be  idle.  They  mean  we  should  n't  be  over- 
anxious and  worreting  ourselves  about  what '11 
happen  to-morrow,  but  do  our  duty,  and  leave 
the  rest  to  God's  will." 


HOME  AND   ITS   SORROWS        63 

"Ay,  ay,  that's  the  way  wi'  thee;  thee  allays 
makes  a  peck  o'  thy  own  words  out  o'  a  pint  o' 
the  Bible's.  I  donna  see  how  thee't  to  know 
as  'take  no  thought  for  the  morrow'  means  all 
that.  An'  when  the  Bible's  such  a  big  book, 
an'  thee  canst  read  all  thro'  't,  an'  ha'  the  pick 
o'  the  texes,  I  canna  think  why  thee  dostna  pick 
better  words  as  donna  mean  so  much  more  nor 
they  say.  Adam  doesna  pick  a-that'n;  I  can 
understan'  the  tex  as  he's  allays  a-sayin',  'God 
helps  them  as  helps  theirsens.'  " 

"Nay,  mother,"  said  Seth,  "that's  no  text  o' 
the  Bible.  It  comes  out  of  a  book  as  Adam 
picked  up  at  the  stall  at  Treddles'on.  It  was 
wrote  by  a  knowing  man,  but  over- worldly,  I 
doubt.  However,  that  saying's  partly  true;  for 
the  Bible  tells  us  we  must  be  workers  together 
with  God." 

"Well,  how'm  I  to  know.?  It  sounds  like 
a  tex.  But  what's  th'  matter  wi'  th'  lad.? 
Thee't  hardly  atin'  a  bit  o'  supper.  Dostna 
mean  to  ha'  no  more  nor  that  bit  o'  oat-cake  ? 
An'  thee  lookst  as  white  as  a  flick  o'  new  bacon. 
What's  th'  matter  wi'  thee.?" 

"Nothing  to  mind  about,  mother;  I'm  not 
hungry.  I'll  just  look  in  at  Adam  again, 
and  see   if  he'll   let  me  go  on  with  the  coffin." 

"Ha'  a  drop  o'  warm  broth.?"  said  Lisbeth, 
whose  motherly  feeling  now  got  the  better  of 
her  "nattering"  habit.  "I'll  set  two- three 
sticks  a-light  in  a  minute." 

"Nay,  mother,  thank  thee;  thee't  very  good," 
said  Seth,  gratefully;  and  encouraged  by  this 
touch  of  tenderness,  he  went  on:  "Let  me  pray 
a  bit  with  thee  for  father,  and  Adam,  and  all  of 


64  ADAM  BEDE 

us,  —  it'll  comfort  thee,  happen,  more  than  thee 
thinkst." 

"Well,  I've  nothin'  to  say  again'  it." 

Lisbeth,  though  disposed  always  to  take  the 
negative  side  in  her  conversations  with  Seth,  had 
a  vague  sense  that  there  was  some  comfort  and 
safety  in  the  fact  of  his  piety,  and  that  it  some- 
how relieved  her  from  the  trouble  of  any  spirit- 
ual transactions  on  her  own  behalf. 

So  the  mother  and  son  knelt  down  together, 
and  Seth  prayed  for  the  poor  wandering  father, 
and  for  those  who  were  sorrowing  for  him  at 
home.  And  when  he  came  to  the  petition  that 
Adam  might  never  be  called  to  set  up  his  tent 
in  a  far  country,  but  that  his  mother  might  be 
cheered  and  comforted  by  his  presence  all  the 
days  of  her  pilgrimage,  Lisbeth's  ready  tears 
flowed  again,  and  she  wept  aloud. 

When  they  rose  from  their  knees,  Seth  went  to 
Adam  again,  and  said,  "Wilt  only  lie  down  for 
an  hour  or  two,  and  let  me  go  on  the  while  ?" 

"No,  Seth,  no.  Make  mother  go  to  bed,  and 
go  thyself." 

Meantime  Lisbeth  had  dried  her  eyes,  and 
now  followed  Seth,  holding  something  in  her 
hands.  It  was  the  brown- and-yellow  platter 
containing  the  baked  potatoes  with  the  gravy 
in  them  and  bits  of  meat  which  she  had  cut 
and  mixed  among  them.  Those  were  dear 
times,  when  wheaten  bread  and  fresh  meat 
were  delicacies  to  working  people.  She  set  the 
dish  down  rather  timidly  on  the  bench  by 
Adam's  side,  and  said,  "Thee  canst  pick  a  bit 
while  thee't  workin'.  I'll  bring  thee  another 
drop  o'  water." 


HOME  AND   ITS   SORROWS        65 

"Ay,  mother,  do,"  said  Adam,  kindly;  "I'm 
getting  very  thirsty." 

In  half  an  hour  all  was  quiet;  no  sound  was 
to  be  heard  in  the  house  but  the  loud  ticking 
of  the  old  day- clock,  and  the  ringing  of  Adam's 
tools.  The  night  was  very  still.  When  Adam 
opened  the  door  to  look  out  at  twelve  o'clock, 
the  only  motion  seemed  to  be  in  the  glowing, 
twinkling  stars;  every  blade  of  grass  was  asleep. 

Bodily  haste  and  exertion  usually  leave  our 
thoughts  very  much  at  the  mercy  of  our  feel- 
ings and  imagination;  and  it  was  so  to-night 
with  Adam.  Wliile  his  muscles  were  working 
lustily,  his  mind  seemed  as  passive  as  a  spec- 
tator at  a  diorama;  scenes  of  the  sad  past 
and  probably  sad  future  floating  before  him 
and  giving  place  one  to  the  other  in  swift 
succession. 

He  saw  how  it  would  be  to-morrow  morn- 
ing, when  he  had  carried  the  coffin  to  Broxton 
and  was  at  home  again,  having  his  breakfast. 
His  father  perhaps  would  come  in  ashamed  to 
meet  his  son's  glance,  —  would  sit  down,  look- 
ing older  and  more  tottering  than  he  had  done 
the  morning  before,  and  hang  down  his  head, 
examining  the  floor-quarries;  while  Lisbeth 
would  ask  him  how  he  supposed  the  coffin  had 
been  got  ready  that  he  had  slinked  off  and  left 
undone,  —  for  Lisbeth  was  always  the  first  to 
utter  the  word  of  reproach,  although  she  cried 
at  Adam's  severity  towards  his  father. 

"So  it  will  go  on,  worsening  and  worsening," 
thought  Adam;  "there's  no  sHpping  up-hill 
again,  and  no  standing  still  when  once  you've 
begun  to  slip  down."     And  then  the  day  came 

VOL.  1—5 


66  ADAM   BEDE 

back  to  him  when  he  was  a  Httle  fellow  and  used 
to  run  by  his  father's  side,  proud  to  be  taken  out 
to  work,  and  prouder  still  to  hear  his  father 
boastino;  to  his  fellow- workmen  how  "the  little 
chap  had  an  uncommon  notion  o  carpenter- 
ing." What  a  fine,  active  fellow  his  father 
was  then!  When  people  asked  Adam  whose 
little  lad  he  was,  he  had  a  sense  of  distinction 
as  he  answered,  "I'm  Thias  Bede's  lad,"  — 
he  was  quite  sure  everybody  knew  Thias  Bede: 
did  n't  he  make  the  wonderful  pigeon-house  at 
Broxton  parsonage  ?  Those  were  happy  days, 
especially  when  Seth,  who  was  three  years  the 
younger,  began  to  go  out  working  too,  and 
Adam  began  to  be  a  teacher  as  well  as  a  learner. 
But  then  came  the  days  of  sadness,  when  Adam 
was  some  way  on  in  his  teens,  and  Thias  began 
to  loiter  at  the  public-houses,  and  Lisbeth  be- 
gan to  cry  at  home,  and  to  pour  forth  her  plaints 
in  the  hearing  of  her  sons.  Adam  remembered 
well  the  night  of  shame  and  anguish  when  he 
first  saw  his  father  quite  wild  and  foolish,  shout- 
ing a  song  out  fitfully  among  his  drunken  com- 
panions at  the  "  Wagon  Overthrown."  He  had 
run  away  once  when  he  was  only  eighteen,  mak- 
ing his  escape  in  the  morning  twilight  with  a 
little  blue  bundle  over  his  shoulder,  and  his 
"mensuration  book"  in  his  pocket,  and  say- 
ing to  himself  very  decidedly  that  he  could  bear 
the  vexations  of  home  no  longer,  —  he  would 
go  and  seek  his  fortune,  setting  up  his  stick  at 
the  crossways  and  bending  his  steps  the  way  it 
fell.  But  by  the  time  he  got  to  Stoniton,  the 
thought  of  his  mother  and  Seth,  left  behind 
to  endure  everything  without  him,  became  too 


HOME   AND   ITS   SORROWS        67 

importunate,  and  his  resolution  failed  him. 
He  came  back  the  next  day ;  but  the  misery  and 
terror  his  mother  had  gone  through  in  those  two 
days  had  haunted  her  ever  since. 

"No!"  Adam  said  to  himself  to-night, 
"that  must  never  happen  again.  It  'ud  make 
a  poor  balance  when  my  doings  are  cast  up  at 
the  last,  if  my  poor  old  mother  stood  o'  the 
wrong  side.  My  back's  broad  enough  and 
strong  enough;  I  should  be  no  better  than  a 
coward  to  go  away  and  leave  the  troubles  to  be 
borne  by  them  as  are  n't  half  so  able.  '  They 
that  are  strong  ought  to  bear  the  infirmities  of 
those  that  are  weak,  and  not  to  please  them- 
selves.' There's  a  text  wants  no  candle  to  show't ; 
it  shines  by  its  own  light.  It's  plain  enough  you 
get  into  the  wrong  road  i'  this  life  if  you  run  after 
this  and  that  only  for  the  sake  o'  making  things 
easy  and  pleasant  to  yourself.  A  pig  may  poke 
his  nose  into  the  trough  and  think  o'  nothing 
outside  it;  but  if  you've  got  a  man's  heart  and 
soul  in  you,  you  can't  be  easy  a-making  your 
own  bed  an'  leaving  the  rest  to  lie  on  the  stones. 
Nay,  nay,  I'll  never  slip  my  neck  out  o'  the  yoke, 
and  leave  the  load  to  be  drawn  bv  the  weak  uns. 
Father's  a  sore  cross  to  me,  an'  's  likely  to  be 
for  many  a  long  year  to  come.  What  then  ? 
I  've  got  th'  health  and  the  limbs  and  the  sperrit 
to  bear  it." 

At  this  moment  a  smart  rap,  as  if  with  a  wil- 
low^ wand,  was  given  at  the  house  door;  and 
Gyp,  instead  of  barking,  as  might  have  been 
expected,  gave  a  loud  howl.  Adam,  very  much 
startled,  went  at  once  to  the  door  and  opened 
it.     Nothing  was  there;    all  was  still,  as  when 


68  ADAM  BEDE 

he  opened  it  an  hour  before;  the  leaves  were 
motionless,  and  the  light  of  the  stars  showed 
the  placid  fields  on  both  sides  of  the  brook 
quite  empty  of  visible  life.  Adam  walked 
round  the  house,  and  still  saw  nothing  except 
a  rat  which  darted  into  the  woodshed  as  he 
passed.  He  went  in  again,  wondering:  the 
sound  was  so  peculiar  that  the  moment  he  heard 
it,  it  called  up  the  image  of  the  willow  wand 
striking  the  door.  He  could  not  help  a  little 
shudder,  as  he  remembered  how  often  his 
mother  had  told  him  of  just  such  a  sound  com- 
ing as  a  sign  when  some  one  was  dying.  Adam 
was  not  a  man  to  be  gratuitously  superstitious; 
but  he  had  the  blood  of  the  peasant  in  him  as 
well  as  of  the  artisan,  and  a  peasant  can  no  more 
help  believing  in  a  traditional  superstition  than 
a  horse  can  help  trembling  when  he  sees  a  camel. 
Besides,  he  had  that  mental  combination  which 
is  at  once  humble  in  the  region  of  mystery  and 
keen  in  the  region  of  knowledge:  it  was  the 
depth  of  his  reverence  quite  as  much  as  his  hard 
common- sense  which  gave  him  his  disinclina- 
tion to  doctrinal  religion;  and  he  often  checked 
Seth's  argumentative  spiritualism  by  saying, 
"Eh,  it's  a  big  mystery;  thee  know'st  but  little 
about  it."  And  so  it  happened  that  Adam  was 
at  once  penetrating  and  credulous.  If  a  new 
building  had  fallen  down  and  he  had  been  told 
that  this  was  a  divine  judgment,  he  would  have 
said,  "Maybe;  but  the  bearing  o'  the  roof  and 
walls  was  n't  right,  else  it  would  n't  ha'  come 
down;  "  yet  he  believed  in  dreams  and  prognos- 
tics, and  to  his  dying  day  he  bated  his  breath  a 
little  when  he  told  the  story  of  the  stroke  with 


HOME  AND   ITS   SORROWS        69 

the  willow  wand.  I  tell  it  as  he  told  it,  not  at- 
tempting to  reduce  it  to  its  natural  elements;  in 
our  eagerness  to  explain  impressions,  we  often 
lose  our  hold  of  the  sympathy  that  comprehends 
them. 

But  he  had  the  best  antidote  against  imagina- 
tive dread  in  the  necessity  for  getting  on  with 
the  coffin ;  and  for  the  next  ten  minutes  his  ham- 
mer was  ringing  so  uninterruptedly  that  other 
sounds,  if  there  were  any,  might  well  be  over- 
powered. A  pause  came,  however,  when  he 
had  to  take  up  his  ruler;  and  now  again  came 
the  strange  rap,  and  again  Gyp  howled;  Adam 
was  at  the  door  without  the  loss  of  a  moment; 
but  again  all  was  still,  and  the  starlight  showed 
there  was  nothing  but  the  dew- laden  grass  in 
front  of  the  cottage. 

Adam  for  a  moment  thought  uncomfortably 
about  his  father;  but  of  late  years  he  had  never 
come  home  at  dark  hours  from  Treddleston,  and 
there  was  every  reason  for  believing  that  he  was 
then  sleeping  off  his  drunkenness  at  the  "  Wagon 
Overthrown."  Besides,  to  Adam,  the  concep- 
tion of  the  future  was  so  inseparable  from  the 
painful  image  of  his  father  that  the  fear  of  any 
fatal  accident  to  him  was  excluded  by  the  deeply 
infixed  fear  of  his  continual  degradation.  The 
next  thought  that  occurred  to  him  was  one  that 
made  him  slip  off  his  shoes  and  tread  lightly 
upstairs,  to  listen  at  the  bedroom  doors;  but 
both  Seth  and  his  mother  were  breathing 
regularly. 

Adam  came  down  and  set  to  work  again,  say- 
ing to  himself:  "I  won't  open  the  door  again. 
It's  no  use  staring  about  to  catch  sight  of  a 


70  ADAM   BEDE 

sound.  Maybe  there's  a  world  about  us  as  we 
can't  see,  but  th'  ear's  quicker  than  the  eye,  and 
catches  a  sound  from  't  now  and  then.  Some 
people  think  they  get  a  sight  on't  too,  but  they're 
mostly  folks  whose  eyes  are  not  much  use  to  'em 
at  anything  else.  For  my  part,  I  think  it's 
better  to  see  when  your  perpendicular's  true 
than  to  see  a  ghost." 

Such  thoughts  as  these  are  apt  to  grow 
stronger  and  stronger  as  daylight  quenches  the 
candles  and  the  birds  begin  to  sing.  By  the 
time  the  red  sunlight  shone  on  the  brass  nails 
that  formed  the  initials  on  the  lid  of  the  coffin, 
any  lingering  foreboding  from  the  sound  of  the 
willow  wand  was  merged  in  satisfaction  that 
the  work  was  done  and  the  promise  redeemed. 
There  was  no  need  to  call  Seth,  for  he  was  al- 
ready moving  overhead,  and  presently  came 
downstairs. 

"Now,  lad,"  said  Adam,  as  Seth  made  his 
appearance,  "the  coffin's  done,  and  we  can 
take  it  over  to  Brox'on,  and  be  back  again  be- 
fore half  after  six.  I'll  take  a  mouthful  o'  oat- 
cake, and  then  we'll  be  off." 

The  coffin  was  soon  propped  on  the  tall  shoul- 
ders of  the  two  brothers,  and  they  were  making 
their  way,  followed  close  by  Gyp,  out  of  the 
little  woodyard  into  the  lane  at  the  back  of 
the  house.  It  was  but  about  a  mile  and  a  half 
to  Broxton  over  the  opposite  slope,  and  their 
road  wound  very  pleasantly  along  lanes  and 
across  fields,  where  the  pale  woodbines  and  the 
dog-roses  were  scenting  the  hedgerows,  and  the 
birds  were  twittering  and  trilling  in  the  tall  leafy 
boughs  of  oak  and  elm.     It  was  a  strangely  min- 


HOME  AND   ITS   SORROWS        71 

gled  picture,  —  the  fresh  youth  of  the  summer 
morning,  with  its  Eden-like  peace  and  loveH- 
ness,  the  stalwart  strength  of  the  two  brothers 
in  their  rusty  working- clothes,  and  the  long 
coffin  on  their  shoulders.  They  paused  for  the 
last  time  before  a  small  farmhouse  outside  the 
village  of  Broxton.  By  six  o'clock  the  task  was 
done,  the  coffin  nailed  down,  and  Adam  and 
Seth  were  on  their  way  home.  They  chose  a 
shorter  way  homeward,  which  would  take  them 
across  the  fields  and  the  brook  in  front  of  the 
house.  Adam  had  not  mentioned  to  Seth  what 
had  happened  in  the  night,  but  he  still  retained 
sufficient  impression  from  it  himself  to  say,  — 

"Seth,  lad,  if  father  is  n't  come  home  l)y  the 
time  we've  had  our  breakfast,  I  think  it'll  be  as 
well  for  thee  to  go  over  to  Treddles'on  and  look 
after  him,  and  thee  canst  get  me  the  brass  wire 
I  want.  Never  mind  about  losing  an  hour  at 
thy  work;  we  can  make  that  up.  What  dost 
savr 

'"I'm  willing,"  said  Seth.  "But  see  what 
clouds  have  gathered  smce  we  set  out.  I  m 
thinking  we  shall  have  more  rain.  It'll  be  a 
sore  time  for  th'  haymaking  if  the  meadows  are 
flooded  again.  The  brook's  fine  and  full  now; 
another  day's  rain  'ud  cover  the  plank,  and  we 
should  have  to  go  round  by  the  road." 

They  were  coming  across  the  valley  now,  and 
had  entered  the  pasture  through  which  the 
brook  ran. 

"  Why,  w^hat  's  that  sticking  against  the  wil- 
low .?"  continued  Seth,  beginning  to  walk  faster. 
Adam's  heart  rose  to  his  mouth ;  the  vague  anx- 
iety about  his  father  was  changed  into  a  great 


72  ADAM  BEDE 

dread.  He  made  no  answer  to  Seth,  but  ran 
forward,  preceded  by  Gyp,  who  began  to  bark 
uneasily;  and  in  two  moments  he  was  at  the 
bridge. 

This  was  what  the  omen  meant,  then!  And 
the  gray- haired  father,  of  whom  he  had  thought 
with  a  sort  of  hardness  a  few  hours  ago,  as  cer- 
tain to  live  to  be  a  thorn  in  his  side,  was  perhaps 
even  then  struggling  with  that  watery  death! 
This  was  the  first  thought  that  flashed  through 
Adam's  conscience,  before  he  had  time  to  seize 
the  coat  and  drag  out  the  tall,  heavy  body. 
Seth  was  already  by  his  side,  helping  him;  and 
when  they  had  it  on  the  bank,  the  two  sons  in 
the  first  moments  knelt  and  looked  with  mute 
awe  at  the  glazed  eyes,  forgetting  that  there  was 
need  for  action,  forgetting  everything  but  that 
their  father  lay  dead  before  them.  Adam  was 
the  first  to  speak. 

"I'll  run  to  mother,"  he  said  in  a  loud  whis- 
per.    "I'll  be  back  to  thee  in  a  minute." 

Poor  Lisbeth  was  busy  preparing  her  sons' 
breakfast,  and  their  porridge  was  already 
steaming  on  the  fire.  Her  kitchen  always 
looked  the  pink  of  cleanliness,  but  this  morn- 
ing she  was  more  than  usually  bent  on  making 
her  hearth  and  breakfast- table  look  comfortable 
and  inviting. 

"The  lads  'uU  be  fine  an'  hungry,"  she  said, 
half  aloud,  as  she  stirred  the  porridge.  "It's  a 
good  step  to  Brox'on,  an'  it's  hungry  air  o'er 
the  hill,  — -wi'  that  heavy  coffin  too.  Eh!  it's 
heavier  now,  wi'  poor  Bob  Tholer  in't.  How- 
iver,  I've  made  a  drap  more  porridge  nor  com- 
mon   this   mornin'.     The   feyther    'ull   happen 


HOME  AND   ITS   SORROWS        73 

come  in  arter  a  bit.  Not  as  he'll  ate  much 
porridge.  He  swallers  sixpenn'orth  o'  ale,  an' 
saves  a  hap'orth  o'  porridge,  —  that's  his  way 
o'  layin'  by  money,  as  I've  told  him  many  a 
time,  an'  am  likely  to  tell  him  again  afore  the 
day's  out.  Eh!  poor  mon,  he  takes  it  quiet 
enough;   there's  no  denyin'  that." 

But  now  Lisbeth  heard  the  heavy  "thud" 
of  a  running  footstep  on  the  turf,  and  turning 
quickly  towards  the  door,  she  saw  Adam  enter, 
looking  so  pale  and  overwhelmed  that  she 
screamed  aloud  and  rushed  towards  him  before 
he  had  time  to  speak. 

"Hush,  mother,"  Adam  said,  rather  hoarsely, 
"don't  be  frightened.  Father's  tumbled  into 
the  water.  Belike  we  may  bring  him  round 
again.  Seth  and  me  are  going  to  carry  him  in. 
Get  a  blanket  and  make  it  hot  at  the  fire." 

In  reality  Adam  was  convinced  that  his  father 
was  dead,  but  he  knew  there  was  no  other  way 
of  repressing  his  mother's  impetuous  wailing 
grief  than  by  occupying  her  with  some  active 
task  which  had  hope  in  it. 

He  ran  back  to  Seth,  and  the  two  sons  lifted 
the  sad  burden  in  heartstricken  silence.  The 
wide-open  glazed  eyes  were  gray,  like  Seth's, 
and  had  once  looked  with  mild  pride  on  the 
boys  before  whom  Thias  had  lived  to  hang  his 
head  in  shame.  Seth's  chief  feeling  was  awe 
and  distress  at  this  sudden  snatching  away  of 
his  father's  soul;  but  Adam's  mind  rushed  back 
over  the  past  in  a  flood  of  relenting  and  pity. 
When  death,  the  great  reconciler,  has  come,  it 
is  never  our  tenderness  that  we  repent  of,  but 
our  severity. 


CHAPTER  V 

THE     RECTOR 


BEFORE  twelve  o'clock  there  had  been 
some  heavy  storms  of  rain,  and  the  water 
lay  in  deep  gutters  on  the  sides  of  the 
gravel- walks  in  the  garden  of  Broxton  Parson- 
age; the  great  Provence  roses  had  been  cruelly 
tossed  by  the  Avind  and  beaten  by  the  rain,  and 
all  the  delicate- stemmed  border  flowers  had  been 
dashed  down  and  stained  with  the  wet  soil. 
A  melancholy  morning,  because  it  was  nearly 
time  hay- harvest  should  begin,  and  instead 
of  that  the  meadows  were  likely  to  be 
flooded. 

But  people  who  have  pleasant  homes  get  in- 
door enjoyments  that  they  would  never  think  of 
but  for  the  rain.  If  it  had  not  been  a  wet  morn- 
ing, Mr.  Irwine  would  not  have  been  in  the 
dining-room  playing  at  chess  with  his  mother, 
and  he  loves  both  his  mother  and  chess  quite 
well  enough  to  pass  some  cloudy  hours  very 
easily  by  their  help.  Let  me  take  you  into  that 
dining-room,  and  show  you  the  Rev.  Adolphus 
Irwine,  Rector  of  Broxton,  Vicar  of  Hayslope, 
and  Vicar  of  Blythe,  a  pluralist  at  whom  the 
severest  Church  reformer  would  have  found  it 
difficult  to  look  sour.  We  will  enter  very  softly, 
and  stand  still  in  the  open  doorway,  without 
awaking  the  glossy-brown  setter  who  is  stretched 
across  the  hearth,  with  her  two  puppies  beside 


THE   RECTOR  75 

her;   or  the  pug,  who  is  dozing,  with  his  black 
muzzle  aloft,  like  a  sleepy  president. 

The  room  is  a  large  and  lofty  one,  with  an 
ample  mullioned  oriel  window  at  one  end;  the 
walls,  you  see,  are  new  and  not  yet  painted;  but 
the  furniture,  though  originally  of  an  expensive 
sort,  is  old  and  scanty,  and  there  is  no  drapery 
about  the  window.  The  crimson  cloth  over  the 
large  dining- table  is  very  threadbare,  though  it 
contrasts  pleasantly  enough  with  the  dead  hue 
of  the  plaster  on  the  walls;  but  on  this  cloth 
there  is  a  massive  silver  waiter  with  a  decanter 
of  water  on  it,  of  the  same  pattern  as  two  larger 
ones  that  are  propped  up  on  the  sideboard  with 
a  coat  of  arms  conspicuous  in  their  centre.  You 
suspect  at  once  that  the  inhabitants  of  this  room 
have  inherited  more  blood  than  wealth,  and 
would  not  be  surprised  to  find  that  Mr.  Irwine 
had  a  finely  cut  nostril  and  upper  lip;  but  at 
present  we  can  only  see  that  he  has  a  broad  flat 
back  and  an  abundance  of  powdered  hair,  all 
thrown  backward  and  tied  behind  with  a  black 
ribbon,  —  a  bit  of  conservatism  in  costume 
which  tells  you  that  he  is  not  a  young  man.  He 
will  perhaps  turn  round  by  and  by,  and  in  the 
meantime  we  can  look  at  that  stately  old  lady, 
his  mother,  —  a  beautiful  aged  brunette,  whose 
rich- toned  complexion  is  well  set  off  by  the  com- 
plex wrappings  of  pure  white  cambric  and  lace 
about  her  head  and  neck.  She  is  as  erect  in  her 
comely  embonpoint  as  a  statue  of  Ceres;  and 
her  dark  face,  with  its  delicate  aquiline  nose, 
firm  proud  mouth,  and  small  intense  black  eye, 
is  so  keen  and  sarcastic  in  its  expression  that  you 
instinctively  substitute  a  pack  of  cards  for  the 


ye  ADAM  BEDE 

chess-men,  and  imagine  her  telHng  your  fortune. 
The  small  brown  hand  with  which  she  is  lifting 
her  queen  is  laden  with  pearls,  diamonds,  and 
turquoises;  and  a  large  black  veil  is  very  care- 
fully adjusted  over  the  crown  of  her  cap,  and 
falls  in  sharp  contrast  on  the  white  folds  about 
her  neck.  It  must  take  a  long  time  to  dress  that 
old  lady  in  the  morning!  But  it  seems  a  law  of 
nature  that  she  should  be  dressed  so;  she  is 
clearly  one  of  those  children  of  royalty  w^io  have 
never  doubted  their  right  divine,  and  never  met 
with  any  one  so  absurd  as  to  question  it. 

"There,  Dauphin,  tell  me  what  that  is!"  says 
this  magnificent  old  lady,  as  she  deposits  her 
queen  very  quietly  and  folds  her  arms.  "I 
should  be  sorry  to  utter  a  word  disagreeable 
to  your  feelings." 

"Ah!  you  witch-mother,  you  sorceress!  How 
is  a  Christian  man  to  win  a  game  off  you  ? 
I  should  have  sprinkled  the  board  with  holy 
water  before  we  began.  You've  not  won  that 
game  by  fair  means,  now,  so  don't  pretend  it." 

"Yes,  yes,  that's  what  the  beaten  have  always 
said  of  great  conquerors.  But  see,  there's  the 
sunshine  falling  on  the  board,  to  show  you 
more  clearly  what  a  foolish  move  you  made 
with  that  pawn.  Come,  shall  I  give  you  an- 
other chance.^" 

"No,  mother,  I  shall  leave  you  to  your  own 
conscience,  now  it's  clearing  up.  We  must 
go  and  plash  up  the  mud  a  little,  must  n't  we, 
Juno.^"  This  was  addressed  to  the  brown 
setter,  who  had  jumped  up  at  the  sound  of  the 
voices  and  laid  her  nose  in  an  insinuating  way 
on  her  master's  leg.      "  But  I  must  go  upstairs 


THE   RECTOR  77 

first    and    see    Anne.     I    was    called    away    to 
Tholer's  funeral  just  when  I  was  going  before." 

"It's  of  no  use,  child;  she  can't  speak  to  you. 
Kate  says  she  has  one  of  her  worst  headaches 
this  morning." 

"Oh,  she  likes  me  to  go  and  see  her  just 
the  same;  she's  never  too  ill  to  care  about 
that." 

If  you  know  how  much  of  human  speech  is 
mere  purposeless  impulse  or  habit,  you  will  not 
wonder  when  I  tell  you  that  this  identical  objec- 
tion had  been  made,  and  had  received  the  same 
kind  of  answer,  many  hundred  times  in  the 
course  of  the  fifteen  years  that  Mr.  Irwine's 
sister  Anne  had  been  an  invalid.  Splendid 
old  ladies,  who  take  a  long  time  to  dress  in  the 
morning,  have  often  slight  sympathy  with  sickly 
daughters. 

But  while  Mr.  Irwine  was  still  seated,  leaning 
back  in  his  chair  and  stroking  Juno's  head,  the 
servant  came  to  the  door  and  said,  "If  you 
please,  sir,  Joshua  Rann  wishes  to  speak  with 
you,  if  you  are  at  liberty." 

"Let  him  be  shown  in  here,"  said  Mrs.  Ir- 
wine, taking  up  her  knitting.  "I  always  like 
to  hear  what  Mr.  Rann  has  got  to  say.  His 
shoes  will  be  dirty,  but  see  that  he  wipes  them, 
Carroll." 

In  two  minutes  Mr.  Rann  appeared  at  the 
door  with  very  deferential  bows,  which  how- 
ever were  far  from  conciliating  Pug,  who  gave 
a  sharp  bark,  and  ran  across  the  room  to  recon- 
noitre the  stranger's  legs ;  while  the  two  puppies 
regarding  Mr.  Rann's  prominent  calf  and  ribbed 
worsted  stockings  from  a  more  sensuous  point 


78  ADAM  BEDE 

of  view,  plunged  and  growled  over  them  in 
great  enjoyment.  Meantime  Mr.  Irwine  turned 
round  his  chair  and  said,  — 

"Well,  Joshua,  anything  the  matter  at  Hay- 
slope,  that  you've  come  over  this  damp  morn- 
ing.^ Sit  down,  sit  down.  Never  mind  the 
dogs;  give  them  a  friendly  kick.  Here,  Pug, 
you  rascal!" 

It  is  very  pleasant  to  see  some  men  turn 
round;  pleasant  as  a  sudden  rush  of  warm  air 
in  winter,  or  the  flash  of  firelight  in  the  chill 
dusk.  Mr.  Irwine  was  one  of  those  men.  He 
bore  the  same  sort  of  resemblance  to  his  mother 
that  our  loving  memory  of  a  friend's  face  often 
bears  to  the  face  itself;  the  lines  were  all  more 
generous,  the  smile  brighter,  the  expression 
heartier.  If  the  outline  had  been  less  finely 
cut,  his  face  might  have  been  called  jolly;  but 
that  was  not  the  right  word  for  its  mixture  of 
bonhomie  and  distinction. 

"Thank  your  reverence,"  answered  Mr. 
Rann,  endeavouring  to  look  unconcerned  about 
his  legs,  but  shaking  them  alternately  to  keep 
off  the  puppies;  "I'll  stand,  if  you  please,  as 
more  becoming.  I  hope  I  see  you  an'  Mrs. 
Irwine  well,  an'  Miss  Irwine  —  an'  Miss  Anne 
I  hope's  as  well  as  usual." 

"Yes,  Joshua,  thank  you.  You  see  how 
blooming  my  mother  looks.  She  beats  us 
younger  people  hollow.  But  what's  the 
matter .?" 

"  Why,  sir,  I  had  to  come  to  Brox'on  to  deliver 
some  work,  and  I  thought  it  but  right  to  call  and 
let  you  know  the  goin's-on  as  there's  been  i'  the 
village,  such  as  I  hanna  seen  i'  my  time,  and 


THE   RECTOR  79 

I've  lived  in  it  man  and  boy  sixty  year  come  St. 
Thomas,  and  collected  th'  Easter  dues  for  Mr. 
Blick  before  your  reverence  come  into  the  parish, 
and  been  at  the  ringin'  o'  every  bell,  and  the  dig- 
gin'  o'  every  grave,  and  sung  i'  the  quire  long 
afore  Bartle  Massey  come  from  nobody  knows 
where,  wi'  his  counter-singin'  and  fine  anthems, 
as  puts  everybody  out  but  himself,  —  one  takin' 
it  up  after  another  like  sheep  a-bleatin'  i'  th' 
fold.  I  know  what  belongs  to  bein'  a  parish 
clerk,  and  I  know  as  I  should  be  wantin'  i' 
respect  to  your  reverence,  an'  church  an'  king, 
if  I  was  t'  allow  such  goin's-on  wi'out  speakin'. 
I  was  took  by  surprise,  an'  knowed  nothin'  on 
it  beforehand;  an'  I  was  so  flustered,  I  was 
clean  as  if  I'd  lost  my  tools.  I  hanna  slep' 
more  nor  four  hour  this  night  as  is  past  an' 
gone;  an'  then  it  was  nothin'  but  nightmare, 
as  tired  me  worse  nor  wakin'." 

"Why,  what  in  the  world  is  the  matter, 
Joshua  ?  Have  the  thieves  been  at  the  church 
lead  again  .^" 

"Thieves!  no,  sir,  —  an'  yet,  as  I  may  say,  it 
is  thieves,  an'  a-thievin'  the  church  too.  It's 
the  Methodisses  as  is  like  to  get  th'  upper  hand 
i'  th'  parish,  if  your  reverence  an'  his  honor. 
Squire  Donnithorne,  doesna  think  well  to  say 
the  word  an'  forbid  it.  Not  as  I'm  a-dictatin' 
to  you,  sir;  I'm  not  forgettin'  myself  so  far  as  to 
be  wise  above  my  betters.  Howiver,  whether  I  'm 
wise  or  no,  that's  neither  here  nor  there,  but 
what  I've  got  to  say  I  say, — as  the  young  Metho- 
dis  woman  as  is  at  Mester  Poyser's  was  a- preach - 
in'  an'  a-prayin'  on  the  Green  last  night,  as  sure 
as  I'm  a-stannin'  afore  your  reverence  now." 


80  ADAM   BEDE 

"Preaching  on  the  Green!"  said  Mr.  Irwine, 
looking  surprised  but  quite  serene.  "What^. 
that  pale  pretty  young  woman  I've  seen  at 
Poyser's?  I  saw  she  was  a  Methodist  or 
Quaker,  or  something  of  that  sort,  by  her  dress, 
but  I  did  n't  know  she  was  a  preacher." 

"It's  a  true  word  as  I  say,  sir,"  rejoined  Mr. 
Rann,  compressing  his  mouth  into  a  semicir- 
cular form,  and  pausing  long  enough  to  indicate 
three  notes  of  exclamation.  "She  preached  on 
the  Green  last  night;  an'  she's  laid  hold  of 
Chad's  Bess,  as  the  girl's  been  i'  fits  welly 
iver  sin'." 

"Well,  Bessy  Cranage  is  a  hearty-looking 
lass;  I  dare  say  she'll  come  round  again,  Joshua. 
Did  anybody  else  go  into  fits.^" 

"No,  sir,  I  canna  say  as  they  did.  But 
there's  no  knowin'  what  11  come,  if  we're  t' 
have  such  preachin's  as  that  a-goin'  on  ivery 
week  —  there'll  be  no  livin'  i'  th'  village.  For 
them  Methodisses  make  folks  believe  as  if  they 
take  a  mug;  o'  drink  extrv  an'  make  theirselves 
a  bit  comfortable,  they'll  have  to  go  to  hell  for 
't  as  sure  as  they're  born.  I'm  not  a  tipplin' 
man  nor  a  drunkard,  —  nobody  can  say  it  on 
me,  —  but  I  like  a  extrv  quart  at  Easter  or 
Christmas  time,  as  is  nat'ral  when  we're  goin' 
the  rounds  a-singin'  an'  folks  offer  't  you  for 
nothin',  or  when  I'm  a-collectin'  the  dues;  an' 
I  like  a  pint  wi'  my  pipe,  an'  a  neighbourly 
chat  at  Mester  Casson's  now  an'  then,  for  I 
was  brought  up  i'  the  Church,  thank  God, 
an'  ha'  been  a  parish  clerk  this  two- an'- thirty 
year:  I  should  know  what  the  church  reli- 
gion is." 


THE   RECTOR  81 

"Well,  what's  your  advice,  Joshua?  What 
do  you  think  should  be  done?" 

"Well,  your  reverence,  I'm  not  for  takin'  any 
measures  again'  the  young  woman.  She's  well 
enough  if  she'd  let  alone  preachin';  an'  I  hear 
as  she's  a-goin'  away  back  to  her  own  country 
soon.  She's  Mr.  Poyser's  own  niece,  an'  I  donna 
wish  to  say  what's  anyways  disrespectful  o'  th' 
family  at  th'  Hall  Farm,  as  I've  measured  for 
shoes,  little  an'  big,  welly  iver  sin'  I've  been  a 
shoemaker.  But  there's  that  Will  Maskery, 
sir,  as  is  the  rampageousest  Methodis  as  can 
be,  an'  I  make  no  doubt  it  was  him  as  stirred 
up  th'  young  woman  to  preach  last  night,  an' 
he'll  be  a-bringin'  other  folks  to  preach  from 
Treddles'on,  if  his  comb  is  n't  cut  a  bit;  an'  I 
think  as  he  should  be  let  know  as  he  isna  t'  have 
the  makin'  an'  mendin'  o'  church  carts  an'  im- 
plemen's,  let  alone  stayin'  i'  that  house  an'  yard 
as  is  Squire  Donnithorne's." 

"Well,  but  you  say  yourself,  Joshua,  that 
you  never  knew  any  one  come  to  preach  on 
the  Green  before;  why  should  you  think  they'll 
come  again?  The  Methodists  don't  come  to 
preach  in  little  villages  like  Hayslope,  where 
there's  only  a  handful  of  labourers,  too  tired 
to  listen  to  them.  They  might  almost  as  well 
go  and  preach  on  the  Binton  Hills.  Will 
Maskery  is  no  preacher  himself,  I  think." 

"Nay,  sir,  he's  no  gift  at  stringin'  the  words 
together  wi'out  book;  he'd  be  stuck  fast  like 
a  cow  i'  wet  clay.  But  he's  got  tongue  enough 
to  speak  disrespectful  about 's  neebours,  for 
he  said  as  I  was  a  blind  Pharisee,  —  a-usin' 
the  Bible  i'  that  way  to  find  nicknames  for  folks 

VOL.  I — 6 


82  ADAM   BEDE 

as  are  his  elders  an'  betters!  —  and  what's 
worse,  he's  been  heard  to  say  very  unbecomin' 
words  about  your  reverence;  for  I  could  bring 
them  as  'ud  swear  as  he  called  you  a  'dumb 
dog,'  an'  a  'idle  shepherd.'  You'll  forgi'e 
me  for  say  in'  such  things  over  again." 

"Better  not,  better  not,  Joshua,  Let  evil 
words  die  as  soon  as  they're  spoken.  Will 
Maskery  might  be  a  great  deal  worse  fellow 
than  he  is.  He  used  to  be  a  wild  drunken 
rascal,  neglecting  his  work  and  beating  his  wife, 
they  told  me;  now  he's  thrifty  and  decent,  and 
he  and  his  wife  look  comfortable  together.  If 
you  can  bring  me  any  proof  that  he  interferes 
with  his  neighbours  and  creates  any  disturbance, 
I  shall  think  it  my  duty  as  a  clergyman  and  a 
magistrate  to  interfere.  But  it  would  n't  be- 
come wise  people,  like  you  and  me,  to  be  mak- 
ing a  fuss  about  trifles,  as  if  we  thought  the 
Church  was  in  danger  because  Will  Maskery 
lets  his  tongue  wag  rather  foolishly,  or  a  young 
woman  talks  in  a  serious  way  to  a  handful  of  peo- 
ple on  the  Green.  We  must  'live  and  let  live,' 
Joshua,  in  religion  as  well  as  in  other  things. 
You  go  on  doing  your  duty  as  parish  clerk  and 
sexton  as  well  as  you've  always  done  it,  and 
making  those  capital  thick  boots  for  your  neigh- 
bours, and  things  won't  go  far  wrong  in  Hay- 
slope,  depend  upon  it." 

"Your  reverence  is  very  good  to  say  so;  an' 
I'm  sensable  as,  you  not  livin'  i'  the  parish, 
there's  more  upo'  my  shoulders." 

"To  be  sure;  and  you  must  mind  and  not 
lower  the  Church  in  people's  eyes  by  seeming 
to   be   frightened    about   it   for   a   little   thing. 


THE   RECTOR  83 

Joshua.  I  shall  trust  to  your  good  sense,  now, 
to  take  no  notice  at  all  of  what  Will  Maskery 
says,  either  about  you  or  me.  You  and  your 
neighbours  can  go  on  taking  your  pot  of  beer 
soberly,  when  you've  done  your  day's  work, 
like  good  churchmen;  and  if  Will  Maskery 
does  n't  like  to  join  you,  but  to  go  to  a  prayer- 
meeting  at  Treddleston  instead,  let  him;  that's 
no  business  of  yours,  so  long  as  he  does  n't 
hinder  you  from  doing  what  you  like.  And  as 
to  people  saying  a  few  idle  words  about  us,  we 
must  not  mind  that,  any  more  than  the  old 
church-steeple  minds  the  rooks  cawing  about 
it.  Will  Maskery  comes  to  church  every  Sun- 
day afternoon,  and  does  his  wheelwright's  busi- 
ness steadily  in  the  week-days;  and  as  long  as 
he  does  that  he  must  be  let  alone." 

"Ah,  sir,  but  when  he  comes  to  church,  he 
sits  an'  shakes  his  head,  an'  looks  as  sour  an' 
as  coxy  when  we  're  a-singin'  as  I  should  like 
to  fetch  him  a  rap  across  the  jowl  —  God  for- 
gi'e  me  —  an'  Mrs.  Irwine,  an'  your  reverence, 
too,  for  speakin'  so  afore  you.  An'  he  said  as 
our  Christmas  singin'  was  no  better  nor  the 
cracklin'  o'  thorns  under  a  pot." 

"Well,  he's  got  a  bad  ear  for  music,  Joshua. 
When  people  have  wooden  heads,  you  know,  it 
can't  be  helped.  He  won't  bring  the  other 
people  in  Hayslope  round  to  his  opinion  while 
you  go  on  singing  as  well  as  you  do." 

"Yes,  sir,  but  it  turns  a  man's  stomach  t' 
hear  the  Scripture  misused  i'  that  way.  I 
know  as  much  o'  the  words  o'  the  Bible  as  he 
does,  an'  could  say  the  Psalms  right  through  i' 
my  sleep  if  you  was  to  pinch  me;    but  I  know 


84  ADAM  BEDE 

better  nor  to  take  'em  to  say  my  own  say  wi'. 
I  might  as  well  take  the  Sacriment-cup  home 
and  use  it  at  meals." 

"That's  a  very  sensible  remark  of  yours, 
Joshua;    but,  as  I  said  before  —  " 

While  Mr,  Irwine  was  speaking,  the  sound  of 
a  booted  step  and  the  clink  of  a  spur  were  heard 
on  the  stone  floor  of  the  entrance-hall,  and 
Joshua  Rann  moved  hastily  aside  from  the 
doorway  to  make  room  for  some  one  who 
paused  there  and  said  in  a  ringing  tenor 
voice,  — 

"Godson  Arthur;    may  he  come  in?" 

"Come  in,  come  in,  godson!"  Mrs.  Irwine 
answered,  in  the  deep  half- masculine  tone  which 
belongs  to  the  vigorous  old  woman,  and  there 
entered  a  young  gentleman  in  a  riding-dress, 
with  his  right  arm  in  a  sling;  whereupon  fol- 
lowed that  pleasant  confusion  of  laughing  in- 
terjections, and  hand-shakings,  and  "How  are 
you's.^"  mingled  with  joyous  short  barks  and 
wagging  of  tails  on  the  part  of  the  canine  mem- 
bers of  the  family,  which  tells  that  the  visitor 
is  on  the  best  terms  with  the  visited.  The 
young  gentleman  was  Arthur  Donnithorne, 
known  in  Hayslope,  variously,  as  "the  young 
squire,"  "the  heir,"  and  "the  captain."  He 
was  only  a  captain  in  the  Loamshire  Militia; 
but  to  the  Hayslope  tenants  he  was  more  in- 
tensely a  captain  than  all  the  young  gentlemen 
of  the  same  rank  in  his  Majesty's  regulars,  — 
he  outshone  them  as  the  planet  Jupiter  outshines 
the  Milky  Way.  If  you  want  to  know  more 
particularly  how  he  looked,  call  to  your  remem- 
brance  some   tawny- whiskered,   brown-locked. 


THE   RECTOR  85 

clear- complexioned  young  Englishman  whom 
you  have  met  with  in  a  foreign  town,  and 
been  proud  of  as  a  fellow-countryman,  —  well- 
washed,  high-bred,  white-handed,  yet  looking 
as  if  he  could  deliver  well  from  the  left  shoulder, 
and  floor  his  man.  I  will  not  be  so  much  of  a 
tailor  as  to  trouble  your  imagination  with  the 
difference  of  costume,  and  insist  on  the  striped 
waistcoat,  long-tailed  coat,  and  low^  top-boots. 

Turning  round  to  take  a  chair.  Captain 
Donnithorne  said,  "But  don't  let  me  interrupt 
Joshua's  business,  —  he  has  something  to  say." 

"Humbly  begging  your  honour's  pardon," 
said  Joshua,  bowing  low,  "there  was  one  thing 
I  had  to  say  to  his  reverence  as  other  things 
had  drove  out  o'  my  head." 

"Out  with  it,  Joshua,  quickly!"  said  Mr. 
Irwine. 

"Belike,  sir,  you  havena  beared  as  Thias 
Bede's  dead,  —  drownded  this  morning,  or 
more  like  overniglit,  i'  the  Willow  Brook  again' 
the  bridge  right  i'  front  o'  the  house." 

"Ah!"  exclaimed  both  the  gentlemen  at  once, 
as  if  they  were  a  good  deal  interested  in  the 
information. 

"An'  Seth  Bede  's  been  to  me  this  morning  to 
say  he  wished  me  to  tell  your  reverence  as  his 
brother  Adam  begged  of  you  particular  t'  allow 
his  father's  grave  to  be  dug  by  the  White  Thorn, 
because  his  mother's  set  her  heart  on  it,  on  ac- 
count of  a  dream  as  she  had;  an'  they'd  ha' 
come  theirselves  to  ask  you,  but  they've  so 
much  to  see  after  with  the  crowner,  an'  that ;  an' 
their  mother  's  took  on  so,  an'  wants  'em  to  make 
sure  o'  the  spot  for  fear  somebody  else  should 


86  ADAM  BEDE 

take  it.  An'  if  your  reverence  sees  well  and 
good,  I'll  send  my  boy  to  tell  'em  as  soon  as  I 
get  home;  an'  that's  why  I  make  bold  to  trouble 
you  wi'  it,  his  honour  being  present." 

"To  be  sure,  Joshua,  to  be  sure,  they  shall 
have  it.  I'll  ride  round  to  Adam  myself,  and 
see  him.  Send  your  boy,  however,  to  say  they 
shall  have  the  grave,  lest  anything  should 
happen  to  detain  me.  And  now,  good  morn- 
ing, Joshua ;  go  into  the  kitchen  and  have  some 
ale." 

"Poor  old  Thias!"  said  Mr.  Irwine,  when 
Joshua  was  gone.  "I'm  afraid  the  drink 
helped  the  brook  to  drown  him.  I  should  have 
been  glad  for  the  load  to  have  been  taken  off 
my  friend  x\dam's  shoulders  in  a  less  painful 
way.  That  fine  fellow  has  been  propping  up 
his  father  from  ruin  for  the  last  five  or  six 
years." 

"He's  a  regular  trump,  is  Adam,"  said  Cap- 
tain Donnithorne.  "  When  I  was  a  little  fellow, 
and  Adam  was  a  strapping  lad  of  fifteen  and 
taught  me  carpentering,  I  used  to  think  if  ever 
I  was  a  rich  sultan,  I  would  make  Adam  my 
grand-vizier.  And  I  believe  now,  he  would 
bear  the  exaltation  as  well  as  any  poor  wise  man 
in  an  Eastern  story.  If  ever  I  live  to  be  a  large- 
acred  man  instead  of.  a  poor  devil  with  a  mort- 
gaged allowance  of  pocket-money,  I'll  have 
Adam  for  my  right  hand.  He  shall  manage  my 
woods  for  me,  for  he  seems  to  have  a  better 
notion  of  those  things  than  any  man  I  ever  met 
with;  and  I  know  he  would  make  twice  the 
money  of  them  that  my  grandfather  does,  with 
that  miserable  old  Satchell  to  manage,  who  un- 


THE   RECTOR  87 

derstands  no  more  about  timber  than  an  old 
carp.  I've  mentioned  the  subject  to  my  grand- 
father once  or  twice;  but  for  some  reason  or 
other  he  has  a  disHke  to  Adam,  and  /  can  do 
nothing.  But  come,  your  reverence,  are  you 
for  a  ride  with  me?  It's  splendid  out  of  doors 
now.  We  can  go  to  Adam's  together,  if  you 
like ;  but  I  want  to  call  at  the  Hall  Farm  on  my 
way,  to  look  at  the  whelps  Poyser  is  keeping 
for  me." 

"  You  must  stay  and  have  lunch  first,  Arthur," 
said  Mrs.  Irwine.  "It's  nearly  two.  Carroll 
will  bring  it  in  directly." 

"I  want  to  go  to  the  Hall  Farm  too,"  said 
Mr.  Irwine,  "to  have  another  look  at  the  little 
Methodist  who  is  staying  there.  Joshua  tells 
me  she  was  preaching  on  the  Green  last  night." 

"Oh,  by  Jove!"  said  Captain  Donnithorne, 
laughing.  "Why,  she  looks  as  quiet  as  a 
mouse.  There's  something  rather  striking 
about  her,  though.  I  positively  felt  quite  bash- 
ful the  first  time  I  saw  her.  She  was  sitting 
stooping  over  her  sewing  in  the  sunshine  outside 
the  house,  when  I  rode  up  and  called  out,  with- 
out noticing  that  she  was  a  stranger, '  Is  Martin 
Poyser  at  home.^'  I  declare,  when  she  got  up 
and  looked  at  me,  and  just  said,  'He's  in  the 
house,  I  believe;  I'll  go  and  call  him,'  I  felt 
quite  ashamed  of  having  spoken  so  abruptly  to 
her.  She  looked  like  Saint  Catherine  in  a 
Quaker  dress.  It's  a  type  of  face  one  rarely 
sees  among  our  common  people." 

"I  should  like  to  see  the  young  woman,  Dau- 
phin," said  Mrs.  Irwine.  "Make  her  come 
here  on  some  pretext  or  other." 


88  ADAM  BEDE 

"I  don't  know  how  J  can  manage  that, 
mother;  it  will  hardly  do  for  me  to  patronize  a 
Methodist  preacher,  even  if  she  would  consent 
to  be  patronized  by  an  idle  shepherd,  as  Will 
Maskery  calls  me.  You  should  have  come  in 
a  little  sooner,  Arthur,  to  hear  Joshua's  de- 
nunciation of  his  neighbour  Will  Maskery. 
The  old  fellow  wants  me  to  excommunicate  the 
wheelright,  and  then  deliver  him  over  to  the 
civil  arm  —  that  is  to  say,  to  your  grandfather 
—  to  be  turned  out  of  house  and  yard.  If  I 
chose  to  interfere  in  this  business,  now,  I  might 
get  up  as  pretty  a  story  of  hatred  and  persecu- 
tion as  the  Methodists  need  desire  to  publish  in 
the  next  number  of  their  magazine.  It  would 
n't  take  me  much  trouble  to  persuade  Chad 
Cranage  and  half-a-dozen  other  bull-headed 
fellows,  that  they  would  be  doing  an  acceptable 
service  to  the  Church  by  hunting  Will  Maskery 
out  of  the  village  with  rope-ends  and  pitchforks; 
and  then,  when  I  had  furnished  them  with  half  a 
sovereign  to  get  gloriously  drunk  after  their  ex- 
ertions, I  should  have  put  the  climax  to  as  pretty 
a  farce  as  any  of  my  brother  clergy  have  set 
going  in  their  parishes  for  the  last  thirty  years." 

"It  is  really  insolent  of  the  man,  though,  to 
call  you  an  'idle  shepherd'  and  a  'dumb  dog,'" 
said  Mrs.  Irwine.  "I  should  be  inclined  to 
check  him  a  little  there.  You  are  too  easy- 
tempered,  Dauphin." 

"Why,  mother,  you  don't  think  it  would  be  a 
good  way  of  sustaining  my  dignity  to  set  about 
vindicating  myself  from  the  aspersions  of  Will 
Maskery.^  Besides,  I'm  not  so  sure  that  they 
are  aspersions.    I  am  a  lazy  fellow,  and  get  terri- 


THE   RECTOR  89 

bly  heavy  in  my  saddle;  not  to  mention  that 
I'm  always  spending  more  than  I  can  afford  in 
bricks  and  mortar,  so  that  I  get  savage  at  a 
lame  beggar  when  he  asks  me  for  sixpence. 
Those  poor  lean  cobblers,  who  think  they  can 
help  to  regenerate  mankind  by  setting  out  to 
preach  in  the  morning  twilight  before  they 
begin  their  day's  work,  may  well  have  a  poor 
opinion  of  me.  But  come,  let  us  have  our 
luncheon.     Isn't  Kate  coming  to  lunch .f^" 

"Miss  Irwine  told  Bridget  to  take  her  lunch 
upstairs,"  said  Carroll;  "she  can't  leave  Miss 
Anne." 

"Oh,  very  well.  Tell  Bridget  to  say  I'll  go 
up  and  see  Miss  Anne  presently.  You  can  use 
your  right  arm  quite  well  now,  Arthur,"  Mr. 
Irwine  continued,  observing  that  Captain  Don- 
nithorne  had  taken  his  arm  out  of  the  sling. 

"Yes,  pretty  well;  but  Godwin  insists  on  my 
keeping  it  up  constantly  for  some  time  to  come. 
I  hope  I  shall  be  able  to  get  away  to  the  regi- 
ment, though,  in  the  beginning  of  August.  It's 
a  desperately  dull  business  being  shut  up  at  the 
Chase  in  the  summer  inonths,  when  one  can 
neither  hunt  nor  shoot,  so  as  to  make  one's  self 
pleasantly  sleepy  in  the  evening.  However,  we 
are  to  astonish  the  echoes  on  the  30th  of  July. 
My  grandfather  has  given  me  carte  blanche  for 
once,  and  I  promise  you  the  entertainment  shall 
be  worthy  of  the  occasion.  The  world  will  not 
see  the  grand  epoch  of  my  majority  twice.  I 
think  I  shall  have  a  lofty  throne  for  you,  god- 
mamma,  or  rather  two,  one  on  the  lawn  and  an- 
other in  the  ball-room,  that  you  may  sit  and 
look  down  upon  us  like  an  Olympian  goddess." 


90  ADAM   BEDE 

"I  mean  to  bring  out  my  best  brocade,  that  I 
wore  at  your  christening  twenty  years  ago,"  said 
Mrs.  Irwine.  "Ah,  I  think  I  shall  see  your  poor 
mother  flitting  about  in  her  white  dress,  which 
looked  to  me  almost  like  a  shroud  that  very  day ; 
and  it  teas  her  shroud  only  three  months  after; 
and  your  little  cap  and  christening  dress  were 
buried  with  her  too.  She  had  set  her  heart  on 
that,  sweet  soul!  Thank  God  you  take  after 
your  mother's  family,  Arthur.  If  you  had  been 
a  puny,  wiry,  yellow  baby,  I  would  n't  have 
stood  godmother  to  you.  I  should  have  been 
sure  you  would  turn  out  a  Donnithorne.  But 
you  were  such  a  broad-faced,  broad-chested, 
loud-screaming  rascal,  I  knew  you  were  every 
inch  of  you  a  Tradgett." 

"But  you  might  have  been  a  little  too  hasty 
there,  mother,"  said  Mr.  Irwine,  smiling. 
"Don't  you  remember  how  it  was  with  Juno's 
last  pups  ?  One  of  them  was  the  very  image 
of  its  mother,  but  it  had  two  or  three  of  its 
father's  tricks  notwithstanding.  Nature 
is  clever  enough  to  cheat  even  you,  mother." 

"Nonsense,  child!  Nature  never  makes  a 
ferret  in  the  shape  of  a  mastiff.  You'll  never 
persuade  me  that  I  can't  tell  what  men  are  by 
their  outsides.  If  I  don't  like  a  man's  looks, 
depend  upon  it  I  shall  never  like  him.  I  don't 
want  to  know  people  that  look  ugly  and  dis- 
agreeable, any  more  than  I  want  to  taste  dishes 
that  look  disagreeable.  If  they  make  me 
shudder  at  the  first  glance,  I  say,  take  them 
away.  An  ugly,  piggish,  or  fishy  eye,  now, 
makes  me  feel  quite  ill;  it 's  like  a  bad  smell." 

"Talking    of    eyes,"    said    Captain    Donni- 


THE   RECTOR  91 

thorne,  "that  reminds  me  that  I've  got  a  book 
I  meant  to  bring  you,  godmamma.  It  came 
down  in  a  parcel  from  London  the  other  day. 
I  know  you  are  fond  of  queer,  wizard- Hke 
stories.  It's  a  volume  of  poems,  'Lyrical 
Ballads.'  Most  of  them  seem  to  be  twaddling 
stuff;  but  the  first  is  in  a  different  style.  'The 
Ancient  Mariner'  is  the  title.  I  can  hardly 
make  head  or  tail  of  it  as  a  story,  but  it's  a 
strange,  striking  thing.  I'll  send  it  over  to  you; 
and  there  are  some  other  books  that  you  may 
like  to  see,  Irwine,  —  pamphlets  about  Anti- 
nomianism  and  Evangelicalism,  whatever  they 
may  be.  I  can't  think  what  the  fellow  means 
by  sending  such  things  to  me.  I've  written  to 
him  to  desire  that  from  henceforth  he  will  send 
me  no  book  or  pamphlet  on  anything  that  ends 
in  ism'' 

"Well,  I  don't  know  that  I'm  very  fond  of 
isms  myself;  but  I  may  as  well  look  at  the  pam- 
phlets; they  let  one  see  what  is  going  on.  I've 
a  little  matter  to  attend  to,  Arthur,"  continued 
Mr.  Irwine,  rising  to  leave  the  room,  "  and  then 
I  shall  be  ready  to  set  out  with  you." 

The  little  matter  that  Mr.  Irwine  had  to  at- 
tend to  took  him  up  the  old  stone  staircase 
(part  of  the  house  was  very  old),  and  made  him 
pause  before  a  door  at  which  he  knocked  gently. 
"Come  in,"  said  a  woman's  voice;  and  he  en- 
tered a  room  so  darkened  by  blinds  and  cur- 
tains that  Miss  Kate,  the  thin  middle-aged  lady 
standing  by  the  bedside,  would  not  have  had 
light  enough  for  any  other  sort  of  work  than  the 
knitting  which  lay  on  the  little  table  near  her. 
But  at  present  she  was  doing  what  required 


92  ADAM   BEDE 

only  the  dimmest  light,  —  sponging  the  aching^ 
head  that  lay  on  the  pillow  with  fresh  vinegar. 
It  was  a  small  face,  that  of  th«  poor  sufferer; 
perhaps  it  had  once  been  pretty,  but  now  it  was 
worn  and  sallow.  Miss  Kate  came  towards  her 
brother  and  whispered,  "Don't  speak  to  her; 
she  can't  bear  to  be  spoken  to  to-day."  Anne's 
eyes  were  closed,  and  her  brow  contracted  as 
if  from  intense  pain,  Mr.  Irwine  went  to  the 
bedside,  and  took  up  one  of  the  delicate  hands 
and  kissed  it;  a  slight  pressure  from  the  small 
fingers  told  him  that  it  was  worth  while  to  come 
upstairs  for  the  sake  of  doing  that.  He  lingered 
a  moment,  looking  at  her,  and  then  turned  away 
and  left  the  room,  treading  very  gently,  —  he 
had  taken  off  his  boots  and  put  on  slippers  be- 
fore he  came  upstairs.  Whoever  remembers 
how  many  things  he  has  declined  to  do  even  for 
himself,  rather  than  have  the  trouble  of  putting 
on  or  taking  oft"  his  boots,  will  not  think  this 
last  detail  insignificant. 

And  Mr.  Irwine's  sisters,  as  any  person  of 
family  within  ten  miles  of  Broxton  could  have 
testified,  were  such  stupid,  uninteresting 
women!  It  was  quite  a  pity  handsome,  clever 
Mrs.  Irwine  should  have  had  such  commonplace 
daughters.  That  fine  old  lady  herself  was 
worth  driving  ten  miles  to  see,  any  day;  her 
beauty,  her  well-preserved  faculties,  and  her 
old-fashioned  dignity  made  her  a  graceful  sub- 
ject for  conversation  in  turn  with  the  King's 
health,  the  sweet  new  patterns  in  cotton  dresses, 
the  news  from  Egypt,  and  Lord  Dacey's  law- 
suit, which  was  fretting  poor  Lady  Dacey  to 
death.     But  no  one  ever  thought'  of  mentioning 


THE  RECTOR  93 

the  Miss  Irwines,  except  the  poor  people  in 
Broxton  village,  who  regarded  them  as  deep  in 
the  science  of  medicine,  and  spoke  of  them 
vaguely  as  "the  gentlefolks."  If  any  one  had 
asked  old  Job  Dummilow  who  gave  him  his  flan- 
nel jacket,  he  would  have  answered,  "The  gen- 
tlefolks, last  winter;"  and  w^idow  Steene  dwelt 
much  on  the  virtues  of  the  "stuff"  the  gentle- 
folks gave  her  for  her  cough.  Under  this  name, 
too,  they  were  used  with  great  effect  as  a  means 
of  taming  refractory  children,  so  that  at  the  sight 
of  poor  Miss  Anne's  sallow  face,  several  small 
urchins  had  a  terrified  sense  that  she  was  cogni- 
zant of  all  their  worst  misdemeanours,  and  knew 
the  precise  number  of  stones  with  which  they 
had  intended  to  hit  farmer  Britton's  ducks. 
But  for  all  who  saw  them  through  a  less  mythical 
medium,  the  Miss  Irwines  were  quite  super- 
fluous existences;  inartistic  figures  crowding 
the  canvas  of  life  without  adequate  effect. 
Miss  Anne,  indeed,  if  her  chronic  headaches 
could  have  been  accounted  for  by  a  pathetic 
story  of  disappointed  love,  might  have  had  some 
romantic  interest  attached  to  her;  but  no  such 
story  had  either  been  known  or  invented  con- 
cerning her,  and  the  general  impression  was 
quite  in  accordance  with  the  fact  that  both  the 
sisters  were  old  maids  for  the  prosaic  reason 
that  they  had  never  received  an  eligible  offer. 

Nevertheless,  to  speak  paradoxically,  the  ex- 
istence of  insignificant  people  has  very  impor- 
tant consequences  in  the  world.  It  can  be 
shown  to  affect  the  price  of  bread  and  the  rate 
of  wages,  to  c<$ll  forth  many  evil  tempers  from 
the  selfish,  and  many  heroisms  from  the  sympa- 


94  ADAM  BEDE 

thetic,  and,  in  other  ways,  to  play  no  small  part 
in  the  tragedy  of  life.  And  if  that  handsome, 
generous- blooded  clergyman,  the  Rev.  Adol- 
phus  Irwine,  had  not  had  these  two  hopelessly 
maiden  sisters,  his  lot  would  have  been  shaped 
quite  differently:  he  would  very  likely  have 
taken  a  comely  wife  in  his  youth,  and  now, 
when  his  hair  was  getting  gray  under  the 
powder,  would  have  had  tall  sons  and  blooming 
daughters,  —  such  possessions,  in  short,  as 
men  commonly  think  will  repay  them  for  all 
the  labour  they  take  under  the  sun.  As  it  was, 
—  having  with  all  his  three  livings  no  more 
than  seven  hundred  a  year,  and  seeing  no  way 
of  keeping  his  splendid  mother  and  his  sickly 
sister,  not  to  reckon  a  second  sister,  who  was 
usually  spoken  of  without  any  adjective,  in 
such  ladylike  ease  as  became  their  birth  and 
habits,  and  at  the  same  time  providing  for  a 
family  of  his  own,  —  he  remained,  you  see,  at 
the  age  of  eight- and-forty,  a  bachelor,  not  mak- 
ing any  merit  of  that  renunciation,  but  saying 
laughingly,  if  any  one  alluded  to  it,  that  he 
made  it  an  excuse  for  many  indulgences  which 
a  wife  would  never  have  allowed  him.  And 
perhaps  he  was  the  only  person  in  the  world 
who  did  not  think  his  sisters  uninteresting  and 
superfluous;  for  his  was  one  of  those  large- 
hearted,  sweet- blooded  natures  that  never 
know  a  narrow  or  a  grudging  thought;  epi- 
curean, if  you  will,  with  no  enthusiasm,  no  self- 
scourging  sense  of  duty;  but  yet,  as  you  have 
seen,  of  a  sufficiently  subtle  moral  fibre  to  have 
an  unwearying  tenderness  for  obscure  and  mo- 
notonous suffering.     It  was   his   large-hearted 


THE   RECTOR  95 

indulgence  that  made  him  ignore  his  mother's 
hardness  towards  her  daughters,  which  was  the 
more  striking  from  its  contrast  with  her  doting 
fondness  towards  himself:  he  held  it  no  virtue 
to  frown  at  irremediable  faults. 

See  the  difference  between  the  impression  a 
man  makes  on  you  when  you  walk  by  his  side 
in  familiar  talk,  or  look  at  him  in  his  home,  and 
the  figure  he  makes  when  seen  from  a  lofty 
historical  level,  or  even  in  the  eyes  of  a  critical 
neighbour  who  thinks  of  him  as  an  embodied 
system  or  opinion  rather  than  as  a  man.  Mr. 
Roe,  the  "travelling  preacher"  stationed  at 
Treddleston,  had  included  Mr.  Irwine  in  a 
general  statement  concerning  the  Church  clergy 
in  the  surrounding  district,  whom  he  described 
as  men  given  up  to  the  lusts  of  the  flesh  and  the 
pride  of  life;  hunting  and  shooting,  and  adorn- 
ing their  own  houses ;  asking  what  shall  we  eat, 
and  what  shall  we  drink,  and  wherewithal  shall 
we  be  clothed  ?  —  careless  of  dispensing  the 
bread  of  life  to  their  flocks,  preaching  at  best 
but  a  carnal  and  soul-benumbing  morality,  and 
trafficking  in  the  souls  of  men  by  receiving 
money  for  discharging  the  pastoral  office  in 
parishes  where  they  did  not  so  much  as  look  on 
the  faces  of  the  people  more  than  once  a  year. 
The  ecclesiastical  historian,  too,  looking  into 
parliamentary  reports  of  that  period,  finds 
honourable  members  zealous  for  the  Church, 
and  untainted  with  any  sympathy  for  the  "  tribe 
of  canting  Methodists,"  making  statements 
scarcely  less  melancholy  than  that  of  Mr.  Roe. 
And  it  is  impossible  for  me  to  say  that  Mr. 
Irwine   was   altogether   belied   by   the   generic 


96  ADAM   BEDE 

classification  assigned  him.  He  really  had  no 
very  lofty  aims,  no  theological  enthusiasm.  If 
I  were  closely  questioned,  I  should  be  obliged 
to  confess  that  he  felt  no  serious  alarms  about 
the  souls  of  his  parishioners,  and  would  have 
thought  it  a  mere  loss  of  time  to  talk  in  a  doc- 
trinal and  awakening  manner  to  old  "Feyther 
Taft,"  or  even  to  Chad  Cranage,  the  black- 
smith. If  he  had  been  in  the  habit  of  speaking 
theoretically,  he  would  perhaps  have  said  that 
the  only  healthy  form  religion  could  take  in  such 
minds  was  that  of  certain  dim  but  strong 
emotions,  suffusing  themselves  as  a  hallowing 
influence  over  the  family  affections  and  neigh- 
bourly duties.  He  thought  the  custom  of 
baptism  more  important  than  its  doctrine,  and 
that  the  religious  benefits  the  peasant  drew 
from  the  church  where  his  fathers  worshipped 
and  the  sacred  piece  of  turf  where  they  lay 
buried  were  but  slightly  dependent  on  a  clear 
understanding  of  the  Liturgy  or  the  sermon. 
Clearly  the  rector  was  not  what  is  called  in 
these  days  an  "earnest"  man:  he  was  fonder 
of  church  history  than  of  divinity,  and  had  much 
more  insight  into  men's  characters  than  in- 
terest in  their  opinions;  he  was  neither  labo- 
rious, nor  obviously  self-denying,  nor  very 
copious  in  almsgiving,  and  his  theology,  you 
perceive,  was  lax.  His  mental  palate,  indeed, 
was  rather  pagan,  and  found  a  savouriness  in 
a  quotation  from  Sophocles  or  Theocritus  that 
was  quite  absent  from  any  text  in  Isaiah  or 
Amos.  But  if  you  feed  your  young  setter  on 
raw  flesh,  how  can  you  wonder  at  its  retaining 
a  relish  for  uncooked   partridge  in  after-life  ? 


THE   RECTOR      '  97 

and  Mr.  Irwine's  recollections  of  young  enthu- 
siasm and  ambition  were  all  associated  with 
poetry  and  ethics  that  lay  aloof  from  the  Bible. 

On  the  other  hand,  I  must  plead,  for  I  have 
affectionate  partiality  towards  the  Rector's 
memory,  that  he  was  not  vindictive,  —  and 
some  philanthropists  have  been  so;  that  he  was 
not  intolerant,  —  and  there  is  a  rumour  that 
some  zealous  theologians  have  not  been  alto- 
gether free  from  that  blemish;  that  although 
he  would  probably  have  declined  to  give  his 
body  to  be  burned  in  any  public  cause,  and  was 
far  from  bestowing  all  his  goods  to  feed  the 
poor,  he  had  that  charity  which  has  sometimes 
been  lacking  to  very  illustrious  virtue,  —  he 
was  tender  to  other  men's  failings,  and  unwilling 
to  impute  evil.  He  was  one  of  those  men  — 
and  they  are  not  the  commonest  —  of  whom  we 
can  know  the  best  only  by  following  them  away 
from  the  market-place,  the  platform,  and  the 
pulpit,  entering  with  them  into  their  own  homes, 
hearing  the  voice  with  which  they  speak  to  the 
young  and  aged  about  their  own  hearthstone, 
and  witnessing  their  thoughtful  care  for  the 
every-day  wants  of  every-day  companions,  who 
take  all  their  kindness  as  a  matter  of  course,  and 
not  as  a  subject  for  panegyric. 

Such  men,  happily,  have  lived  in  times  when 
great  abuses  flourished,  and  have  sometimes 
even  been  the  living  representatives  of  the 
abuses.  That  is  a  thought  which  might  com- 
fort us  a  little  under  the  opposite  fact,  —  that 
it  is  better  sometimes  not  to  follow  great  re- 
formers of  abuses  beyond  the  threshold  of  their 
homes. 


98  ADAM  BEDE 

But  whatever  you  may  think  of  Mr.  Irwine 
now,  if  you  had  met  him  that  June  afternoon 
riding  on  his  gray  cob,  with  his  dogs  running 
beside  him  —  portly,  upright,  manly,  with  a 
good-natured  smile  on  his  finely  turned  lips  as 
he  talked  to  his  dashing  young  companion  on 
the  bay  mare,  you  must  have  felt  that  however 
ill  he  harmonized  with  sound  theories  of  the 
clerical  oflSce,  he  somehow  harmonized  ex- 
tremely well  with  that  peaceful  landscape. 

See  them  in  the  bright  sunlight,  interrupted 
every  now  and  then  by  rolling  masses  of  cloud, 
ascending  the  slope  from  the  Broxton  side, 
where  the  tall  gables  and  elms  of  the  rectory  pre- 
dominate over  the  tiny  whitewashed  church. 
They  will  soon  be  in  the  parish  of  Hayslope; 
the  gray  church- tower  and  village  roofs  lie  be- 
fore them  to  the  left,  and  farther  on,  to  the  right, 
they  can  just  see  the  chimneys  of  the  Hall 
Farm. 


CHAPTER   VI 

THE     HALL     FARM 


EVIDENTLY  that  gate  is  never  opened, 
for  the  long  grass  and  the  great  hemlocks 
grow  close  against  it;  and  if  it  were 
opened,  it  is  so  rusty  that  the  force  necessary  to 
turn  it  on  its  hinges  would  be  likely  to  pull  down 
the  square  stone-built  pillars,  to  the  detriment  of 
the  two  stone  lionesses  which  grin  with  a  doubt- 
ful carnivorous  affability  above  a  coat  of  arms 
surmounting  each  of  the  pillars.  It  would  be 
easy  enough,  by  the  aid  of  the  nicks  in  the  stone 
pillars,  to  climb  over  the  brick  wall  with  its 
smooth  stone  coping;  but  by  putting  our  eyes 
close  to  the  rusty  bars  of  the  gate,  we  can  see 
the  house  well  enough,  and  all  but  the  very 
corners  of  the  grassy  enclosure. 

It  is  a  very  fine  old  place,  of  red  brick,  soft- 
ened by  a  pale  powdery  lichen,  which  has  dis- 
persed itself  with  happy  irregularity,  so  as  to 
bring  the  red  brick  into  terms  of  friendly  com- 
panionship with  the  limestone  ornaments  sur- 
rounding the  three  gables,  the  windows,  and  the 
door- place.  But  the  windows  are  patched  with 
wooden  panes,  and  the  door,  I  think,  is  like  the 
gate,  —  it  is  never  opened :  how  it  would  groan 
and  grate  against  the  stone  floor  if  it  were !  For 
it  is  a  solid,  heavy,  handsome  door,  and  must 
once  have  been  in  the  habit  of  shutting  with  a 
sonorous  bang  behind  a  liveried  lackey,  who  had 


100  ADAM   BEDE 

just  seen  his  master  and  mistress  off  the  grounds 
in  a  carriage  and  pair. 

But  at  present  one  might  fancy  the  house  in 
the  early  stage  of  a  chancery  suit,  and  that  the 
fruit  from  that  grand  double  row  of  walnut- 
trees  on  the  right  hand  of  the  enclosure  would 
fall  and  rot  among  the  grass,  if  it  were  not  that 
we  heard  the  booming  bark  of  dogs  echoing 
from  great  buildings  at  the  back.  And  now  the 
half- weaned  calves  that  have  been  sheltering 
themselves  in  a  gorse- built  hovel  against  the 
left-hand  wall,  come  out  and  set  up  a  silly 
answer  to  that  terrible  bark,  doubtless 
supposing  that  it  has  reference  to  buckets  of 
milk. 

Yes,  the  house  must  be  inhabited,  and  we  will 
see  by  whom ;  for  imagination  is  a  licensed  tres- 
passer, —  it  has  no  fear  of  dogs,  but  may  climb 
over  walls  and  peep  in  at  windows  with  im- 
punity. Put  your  face  to  one  of  the  glass  panes 
in  the  right-hand  window:  what  do  you  see.^ 
A  large  open  fireplace,  with  rusty  dogs  in  it,  and 
a  bare  boarded  floor;  at  the  far  end,  fleeces  of 
wool  stacked  up;  in  the  middle  of  the  floor, 
some  empty  corn-bags.  That  is  the  furniture 
of  the  dining-room.  And  what  through  the  left- 
hand  window  ?  Several  clothes-horses,  a  pil- 
lion, a  spinning-wheel,  and  an  old  box  wide 
open,  and  stuft'ed  full  of  coloured  rags.  At  the 
edge  of  this  box  there  lies  a  great  wooden  doll, 
which,  so  far  as  mutilation  is  concerned,  bears 
a  strong  resemblance  to  the  finest  Greek  sculp- 
ture, and  especially  in  the  total  loss  of  its  nose. 
Near  it  there  is  a  little  chair,  and  the  butt-end 
of  a  boy's  leather  long-lashed  whip. 


THE   HALL   FARM  101 

The  history  of  the  house  is  plain  now.  It  was 
once  the  residence  of  a  country  squire,  whose 
family,  probably  dwindling  down  to  mere  spin- 
sterhood,  got  merged  in  the  more  territorial 
name  of  Donnithorne.  It  was  once  the  Hall; 
it  is  now  the  Hall  Farm.  Like  the  life  in  some 
coast- town  that  was  once  a  watering-place  and 
is  now  a  port,  where  the  genteel  streets  are  silent 
and  grass-grown,  and  the  docks  and  warehouses 
busy  and  resonant,  the  life  at  the  Hall  has 
changed  its  focus,  and  no  longer  radiates 
from  the  parlour,  but  from  the  kitchen  and  the 
farmyard. 

Plenty  of  life  there!  though  this  is  the  drow- 
siest time  of  the  year,  just  before  hay-harvest; 
and  it  is  the  drowsiest  time  of  the  day  too,  for 
it  is  close  upon  three  by  the  sun,  and  it  is  half- 
past  three  by  Mrs.  Poyser's  handsome  eight- 
day  clock.  But  there  is  always  a  stronger  sense 
of  life  when  the  sun  is  brilliant  after  rain;  and 
now  he  is  pouring  down  his  beams,  and  making 
sparkles  among  the  wet  straw,  and  lighting 
up  every  patch  of  vivid  green  moss  on  the  red 
tiles  of  the  cow- shed,  and  turning  even  the 
muddy  water  that  is  hurrying  along  the  channel 
to  the  drain  into  a  mirror  for  the  yellow- billed 
ducks,  who  are  seizing  the  opportunity  of  getting 
a  drink  with  as  much  body  in  it  as  possible. 
There  is  quite  a  concert  of  noises;  the  great 
bull- dog,  chained  against  the  stables,  is  thrown 
into  furious  exasperation  by  the  unwary  ap- 
proach of  a  cock  too  near  the  mouth  of  his 
kennel,  and  sends  forth  a  thundering  bark, 
which  is  answered  by  two  fox-hounds  shut  up 
in  the  opposite  cow-house;   the  old  top-knotted 


102  ADAM  BEDE 

hens,  scratching  with  their  chicks  among  the 
straw,  set  up  a  sympathetic  croaking  as  the  dis- 
comfited cock  joins  them;  a  sow  with  her  brood, 
all  very  muddy  as  to  the  legs,  and  curled  as  to 
the  tail,  throws  in  some  deep  staccato  notes; 
our  friends  the  calves  are  bleating  from  the 
home  croft;  and,  under  all,  a  fine  ear  discerns 
the  continuous  hum  of  human  voices. 

For  the  great  barn-doors  are  thrown  wide 
open,  and  men  are  busy  there  mending  the  har- 
ness, under  the  superintendence  of  Mr.  Goby, 
the  "whittaw,"  otherwise  saddler,  who  enter- 
tains them  with  the  latest  Treddleston  gossip. 
It  is  certainly  rather  an  unfortunate  day  that 
Alick,  the  shepherd,  has  chosen  for  having  the 
whittaws,  since  the  morning  turned  out  so  wet; 
and  Mrs.  Poyser  has  spoken  her  mind  pretty 
strongly  as  to  the  dirt  which  the  extra  number 
of  men's  shoes  brought  into  the  house  at  dinner- 
time. Indeed  she  has  not  yet  recovered  her 
equanimity  on  the  subject,  though  it  is  now 
nearly  three  hours  since  dinner,  and  the  house- 
floor  is  perfectly  clean  again;  as  clean  as  every- 
thing else  in  that  wonderful  house- place,  where 
the  only  chance  of  collecting  a  few  grains  of  dust 
would  be  to  climb  on  the  salt- coffer,  and  put 
your  finger  on  the  high  mantel-shelf  on  which 
the  glittering  brass  candle- sticks  are  enjoying 
their  summer  sinecure;  for  at  this  time  of  year, 
of  course,  every  one  goes  to  bed  while  it  is  yet 
light,  or  at  least  light  enough  to  discern  the  out- 
line of  objects  after  you  have  bruised  your  shins 
against  them.  Surely  nowhere  else  could  an 
oak  clock-case  and  an  oak  table  have  got  to 
such  a  polish  by  the  hand,  —  genuine  "elbow 


THE   HALL   FARM  103 

polish,"  as  Mrs.  Poyser  called  it,  for  she  thanked 
God  she  never  had  any  of  your  varnished  rub- 
bish in  her  house.  Hetty  Sorrel  often  took  the 
opportunity,  when  her  aunt's  back  was  turned, 
of  looking  at  the  pleasing  reflection  of  herself  in 
those  polished  surfaces,  —  for  the  oak  table  w^as 
usually  turned  up  like  a  screen,  and  was  more 
for  ornament  than  for  use;  and  she  could  see 
herself  sometimes  in  the  great  round  pewter 
dishes  that  were  ranged  on  the  shelves  above 
the  long  deal  dinner- table,  or  in  the  hobs  of  the 
grate,  which  always  shone  like  jasper. 

Everything  was  looking  at  its  brightest  at  this 
moment,  for  the  sun  shone  right  on  the  pewter 
dishes,  and  from  their  reflecting  surfaces  pleas- 
ant jets  of  light  were  thrown  on  mellow  oak  and 
bright  brass,  and  on  a  still  pleasanter  object 
than  these;  for  some  of  the  rays  fell  on  Dinah's 
finely  moulded  cheek,  and  lit  up  her  pale  red 
hair  to  auburn,  as  she  bent  over  the  heavy  house- 
hold linen  which  she  was  mending  for  her  aunt. 
No  scene  could  have  been  more  peaceful,  if 
Mrs.  Poyser,  w^io  was  ironing  a  few  things  that 
still  remained  from  the  Monday's  w^ash,  had  not 
been  making  a  frequent  clinking  with  her  iron, 
and  moving  to  and  fro  whenever  she  wanted  it 
to  cool;  carrying  the  keen  glance  of  her  blue- 
gray  eye  from  the  kitchen  to  the  dairy,  where 
Hetty  was  making  up  the  butter,  and  from  the 
dairy  to  the  back- kitchen,  where  Nancy  was 
taking  the  pies  out  of  the  oven.  Do  not  sup- 
pose, however,  that  Mrs.  Poyser  was  elderly  or 
shrewish  in  her  appearance;  she  w^as  a  good- 
looking  woman,  not  more  than  eight- and- thirty, 
of  fair  complexion  and  sandy  hair,  well-shapen, 


104  ADAM   BEDE 

light-footed;  the  most  conspicuous  article  in 
her  attire  was  an  ample  checkered  linen  apron, 
which  almost  covered  her  skirt;  and  nothing 
could  be  plainer  or  less  noticeable  than  her  cap 
and  gown,  for  there  was  no  weakness  of  which 
she  was  less  tolerant  than  feminine  vanity,  and 
the  preference  of  ornament  to  utility.  The 
family  likeness  between  her  and  her  niece  Dinah 
Morris,  with  the  contrast  between  her  keenness 
and  Dinah's  seraphic  gentleness  of  expression, 
might  have  served  a  painter  as  an  excellent  sug- 
gestion for  a  Martha  and  Mary.  Their  eyes 
were  just  of  the  same  colour,  but  a  striking  test 
of  the  difference  in  their  operation  was  seen  in 
the  demeanour  of  Trip,  the  black-and-tan  ter- 
rier, whenever  that  much-suspected  dog  un- 
warily exposed  himself  to  the  freezing  arctic  ray 
of  Mrs.  Poyser's  glance.  Her  tongue  was  not 
less  keen  than  her  eye,  and  whenever  a  damsel 
came  within  earshot,  seemed  to  take  up  an  un- 
finished lecture,  as  a  barrel-organ  takes  up  a 
tune,  precisely  at  the  point  where  it  had  left  off. 
The  fact  that  it  was  churning- day  was  another 
reason  why  it  was  inconvenient  to  have  the 
whittaws,  and  why,  consequently,  ]Mrs.  Poyser 
should  scold  Molly  the  housemaid  with  unusual 
severity.  To  all  appearance  Molly  had  got 
through  her  after-dimier  work  in  an  exemplary 
manner,  had  "cleaned  herself"  with  great  des- 
patch, and  now  came  to  ask,  submissively,  if  she 
should  sit  down  to  her  spinning  till  milking- time. 
But  this  blameless  conduct,  according  to  Mrs. 
Poyser,  shrouded  a  secret  indulgence  of  unbe- 
coming wishes,  which  she  now  dragged  forth  and 
held  up  to  Molly's  view  with  cutting  eloquence. 


THE   HALL  FARM  105 

"Spinning,  indeed!  It  isn't  spinning  as 
you'd  be  at,  I'll  be  bound,  and  let  you  have  your 
own  way,  I  never  knew  your  equals  for 
gallowsness.  To  think  of  a  gell  o'  your  age 
wanting  to  go  and  sit  with  half-a-dozen  men! 
I'd  ha'  been  ashamed  to  let  the  words  pass  over 
my  lips  if  I'd  been  you.  And  you,  as  have  been 
here  ever  since  last  Michaelmas,  and  I  hired  you 
at  Treddles'on  stattits,  without  a  bit  o'  char- 
acter, —  as  I  say,  you  might  be  grateful  to  be 
hired  in  that  way  to  a  respectable  place;  and 
you  knew  no  more  o'  w^hat  belongs  to  work 
when  you  come  here  than  the  mawkin  i'  the 
field.  As  poor  a  two-fisted  thing  as  ever  I  saw, 
you  know  you  was.  Who  taught  you  to  scrub 
a  floor,  I  should  like  to  know.^  ^^b>%  you'd 
leave  the  dirt  in  heaps  i'  the  corners,  —  any- 
body 'ud  think  you'd  never  ])een  brought  up 
among  Christians.  And  as  for  spinning,  why, 
you've  wasted  as  much  as  your  wage  i'  the  flax 
you've  spoiled  learning  to  spin.  And  you've 
a  right  to  feel  that,  and  not  to  go  about  as  gap- 
ing and  as  thoughtless  as  if  you  was  beholding 
to  nobody.  Comb  the  wool  for  the  whittaws, 
indeed!  That's  what  you'd  like  to  be  doing, 
is  it.^  That's  the  way  with  you,  —  that's 
the  road  you'd  all  like  to  go,  headlongs 
to  ruin.  You're  never  easy  till  you've  got 
some  sweetheart  as  is  as  big  a  fool  as 
yourself:  you  think  you'll  be  finely  off  when 
you're  married,  I  dare  say,  and  have  got  a 
three-legged  stool  to  sit  on,  and  never  a 
blanket  to  cover  you,  and  a  bit  o'  oat-cake 
for  your  dinner,  as  three  children  are  a- 
snatching    at." 


106  ADAM  BEDE 

"I'm  sure  I  donna  want  t'  go  wi'  the  whit- 
taws,"  said  Molly,  whimpering,  and  quite  over- 
come by  this  Dantean  picture  of  her  future; 
"  on'y  we  allays  used  to  comb  the  wool  for  'n  at 
Mester  Ottley's,  an'  so  I  just  asked  ye.  I  donna 
want  to  set  eyes  on  the  w^hittaws  again;  I  wish 
I  may  never  stir  if  I  do." 

"Mr.  Ottley's  indeed!  It's  fine  talking  o' 
what  you  did  at  Mr.  Ottley's.  Your  missis 
there  might  like  her  floors  dirted  wi'  whittaws 
for  what  I  know.  There's  no  knowing  what 
people  wonna  like,  —  such  ways  as  I've  heard 
of!  I  never  had  a  gell  come  into  my  house  as 
seemed  to  know  what  cleaning  was;  I  think 
people  live  like  pigs,  for  my  part.  And  as  to 
that  Betty  as  was  dairymaid  at  Trent's  before 
she  come  to  me,  she'd  ha'  left  the  cheeses  with- 
out turning  from  week's  end  to  wreck's  end; 
and  the  dairy  thralls,  I  might  ha'  wrote  my 
name  on  'em,  when  I  come  downstairs  after  my 
illness,  as  the  doctor  said  it  was  inflammation  — 
it  was  a  mercy  I  got  well  of  it.  And  to  think  o' 
your  knowing  no  better,  Molly,  and  been  here  a- 
going  i'  nine  months,  and  not  for  want  o'  talk- 
ing to,  neither  —  and  what  are  you  stanning 
there  for,  like  a  jack  as  is  run  down,  instead  o' 
getting  your  wheel  out .^  You're  a  rare  un  for 
sitting  down  to  your  work  a  little  while  after 
it  's  time  to  put  by." 

"Munny,  my  iron's  twite  told;  pease  put  it 
down  to  warm." 

The  small  chirruping  voice  that  uttered  this 
request  came  from  a  little  sunny-haired  girl 
between  three  and  four,  who,  seated  on  a  high- 
chair  at  the  end  of  the  ironing- table,  was  ar- 


THE   HALL   FARM  107 

duously  clutching  the  handle  of  a  miniature 
iron  with  her  tiny  fat  fist,  and  ironing  rags 
with  an  assiduity  that  required  her  to  put 
her  little  red  tongue  out  as  far  as  anatomy 
would  allow. 

"  Cold,  is  it,  my  darling  ?  Bless  your  sweet 
face!"  said  Mrs.  Poyser,  who  was  remarkable 
for  the  facility  with  which  she  could  relapse 
from  her  official  objurgatory  to  one  of  fond- 
ness or  of  friendly  converse.  "Never  mind! 
Mother's  done  her  ironing  now.  She's  going 
to  put  the  ironing  things  away." 

"Munny,  I  tould  'ike  to  do  into  de  barn  to 
Tommy,  to  see  de  whittawd." 

"No,  no,  no;  Totty  'ud  get  her  feet  wet," 
said  Mrs.  Poyser,  carrying  away  her  iron. 
"Run  into  the  dairy  and  see  Cousin  Hetty 
make  the  butter." 

"I  tould  'ike  a  bit  o'  pum-take,"  rejoined 
Totty,  who  seemed  to  be  provided  with  several 
relays  of  requests;  at  the  same  time  taking  the 
opportunity  of  her  momentary  leisure  to  put  her 
fingers  into  a  bowl  of  starch,  and  drag  it  down, 
so  as  to  empty  the  contents  with  tolerable  com- 
pleteness on  to  the  ironing-sheet. 

"Did  ever  anybody  see  the  like.^"  screamed 
Mrs.  Poyser,  running  towards  the  table  when 
her  eye  had  fallen  on  the  blue  stream.  "The 
child  's  allays  i'  mischief  if  your  back  's  turned 
a  minute.  What  shall  I  do  to  you,  you  naughty, 
naughty  gell  ?" 

Totty,  however,  had  descended  from  her  chair 
with  great  swiftness,  and  was  already  in  retreat 
towards  the  dairy  with  a  sort  of  waddling  run, 
and  an  amount  of  fat  on  the  nape  of  her  neck 


108  ADAM   BEDE 

which  made  her  look  like  the  metamorphosis  of 
a  white  sucking-pig. 

The  starch  having  been  wiped  up  by  Molly's 
help,  and  the  ironing  apparatus  put  by,  Mrs. 
Poyser  took  up  her  knitting,  which  always  lay 
ready  at  hand,  and  was  the  work  she  liked  best, 
because  she  could  carry  it  on  automatically  as 
she  walked  to  and  fro.  But  now  she  came  and 
sat  down  opposite  Dinah,  whom  she  looked 
at  in  a  meditative  way,  as  she  knitted  her  gray 
worsted  stocking. 

"You  look  th'  image  o'  your  aunt  Judith, 
Dinah,  when  you  sit  a-sewing.  I  could  almost 
fancy  it  was  thirty  years  back,  and  I  was  a  little 
gell  at  home,  looking  at  Judith  as  she  sat  at  her 
w^ork,  after  she'd  done  the  house  up;  only  it  was 
a  little  cottage,  father's  was,  and  not  a  big  ram- 
bling house  as  gets  dirty  i'  one  corner  as  fast  as 
you  clean  it  in  another;  but  for  all  that,  I  could 
fancy  you  was  your  aunt  Judith,  only  her  hair 
was  a  deal  darker  than  yours,  and  she  was 
stouter  and  broader  i'  the  shoulders.  Judith 
and  me  allays  hung  together,  though  she  had 
such  queer  ways,  but  your  mother  and  her  never 
could  agree.  Ah!  your  mother  little  thought 
as  she'd  have  a  daughter  just  cut  out  after  the 
very  pattern  o'  Judith,  and  leave  her  an  orphan, 
too,  for  Judith  to  take  care  on,  and  bring  up  with 
a  spoon  when  she  w^as  in  the  graveyard  at  Stoni- 
ton.  I  allays  said  that  o'  Judith,  as  she'd  bear 
a  pound  weight  any  day,  to  save  anybody  else 
carrying  a  ounce.  And  she  was  just  the  same 
from  the  first  o'  my  remembering  her;  it  made 
no  difference  in  her,  as  I  could  see,  when  she 
look  to  the  Methodists,  only  she  talked  a  bit 


THE   HALL  FARM  109 

different,  and  wore  a  different  sort  o'  cap;  but 
she  never  in  her  life  spent  a  penny  on  herself 
more  than  keeping  herself  decent." 

"She  was  a  blessed  woman,"  said  Dinah; 
"God  had  given  her  a  loving,  self-forgetting 
nature,  and  he  perfected  it  by  grace.  And  she 
was  very  fond  of  you  too.  Aunt  Rachel.  I've 
often  heard  her  talk  of  you  in  the  same  sort  of 
way.  When  she  had  that  bad  illness,  and  I  was 
only  eleven  years  old,  she  used  to  say,  'You'll 
have  a  friend  on  earth  in  your  aunt  Rachel,  if 
I'm  taken  from  you,  for  she  has  a  kind  heart;' 
and  I'm  sure  I've  found  it  so." 

"I  don't  know  how,  child;  anybody  'ud  be 
cunning  to  do  anything  for  you,  I  think;  you're 
like  the  birds  o'  th'  air,  and  live  nobody  knows 
how.  I'd  ha'  been  glad  to  behave  to  you  like 
a  mother's  sister,  if  you'd  come  and  live  i'  this 
country,  where  there's  some  shelter  and  victual 
for  man  and  beast,  and  folks  don't  live  on  the 
naked  hills,  like  poultry  a- scratching  on  a 
gravel-bank.  And  then  you  might  get  married 
to  some  decent  man;  and  there 'd  be  plenty 
ready  to  have  you,  if  you'd  only  leave  off  that 
preaching,  as  is  ten  times  worse  than  anything 
your  aunt  Judith  ever  did.  And  even  if  you'd 
marry  Seth  Bede,  as  is  a  poor  wool-gathering 
Methodist,  and  's  never  like  to  have  a  penny 
beforehand,  I  know  your  uncle  'ud  help  you 
with  a  pig,  and  very  like  a  cow,  for  he's  allays 
been  good-natur'd  to  my  kin,  for  all  they're 
poor,  and  made  'em  welcome  to  the  house;  and 
'ud  do  for  you,  I'll  be  bound,  as  much  as  ever 
he'd  do  for  Hetty,  though  she's  his  own  niece. 
And  there's  linen  in  the  house  as  I  could  well 


110  ADAM   BEDE 

spare  you,  for  I've  got  lots  o'  sheeting  and 
table- clothing  and  towelling  as  is  n't  made  up. 
There's  a  piece  o'  sheeting  I  could  give  you  as 
that  squinting  Kitty  spun,  —  she  was  a  rare 
girl  to  spin,  for  all  she  squinted,  and  the  chil- 
dren could  n't  abide  her;  and,  you  know,  the 
spinning's  going  on  constant,  and  there  's  new 
linen  wove  twice  as  fast  as  the  old  wears  out. 
But  where 's  the  use  o'  talking,  if  ye  wonna  be 
persuaded,  and  settle  down  like  any  other 
woman  in  her  senses,  istead  o'  wearing  yourself 
out  with  walking  and  preaching,  and  giving 
away  every  penny  you  get,  so  as  you've  nothing 
saved  against  sickness;  and  all  the  things  you've 
got  i'  the  world,  I  verily  believe,  'ud  go  into  a 
bundle  no  bigger  nor  a  double  cheese.  And  all 
because  you've  got  notions  i'  your  head  about 
relioion  more  nor  what's  i'  the  Catechism  and 
the  Prayer  Book." 

"But  not  more  than  what's  in  the  Bible.^ 
aunt,"  said  Dinah. 

"Yes,  and  the  Bible  too,  for  that  matter,'' 
Mrs.  Poyser  rejoined  rather  sharply;  "else  why 
should  n't  them  as  know  best  what's  in  the 
Bible  —  the  parsons  and  people  as  have  got 
nothing  to  do  but  learn  it  —  do  the  same  as  you 
do  ?  But,  for  the  matter  o'  that,  if  ever}^body 
was  to  do  like  you,  the  world  must  come  to  a 
standstill;  for  if  everybody  tried  to  do  without 
house  and  home,  and  with  poor  eating  and 
drinking,  and  was  allays  talking  as  we  must  de- 
spise the  things  o'  the  world,  as  you  say,  I  should 
like  to  know  where  the  pick  o'  the  stock  and  the 
corn,  and  the  best  new- milk  cheeses  'ud  have  to 
go.     Everybody  'ud  be  wanting  bread  made  o' 


THE   HALL   FARM  111 

tail  ends,  and  everybody  'ud  be  running  after 
everybody  else  to  preach  to  'em,  istead  o'  bring- 
ing up  their  families,  and  laying  by  against  a  bad 
harvest.  It  stands  to  sense  as  that  can't  be  the 
right  religion." 

"  Nay,  dear  aunt,  you  never  heard  me  say  that 
all  people  are  called  to  forsake  their  work  and 
their  families.  It's  quite  right  the  land  should 
be  ploughed  and  sowed,  and  the  precious  corn 
stored,  and  the  things  of  this  life  cared  for,  and 
right  that  people  should  rejoice  in  their  families 
and  provide  for  them,  so  that  this  is  done  in  the 
fear  of  the  Lord,  and  that  they  are  not  unmind- 
ful of  the  soul's  wants  while  they  are  caring  for 
the  body.  We  can  all  be  servants  of  God  wher- 
ever our  lot  is  cast,  but  he  gives  us  different  sorts 
of  work,  according  as  he  fits  us  for  it  and  calls  us 
to  it.  I  can  no  more  help  spending  my  life  in 
trying  to  do  what  I  can  for  the  souls  of  others, 
than  you  could  help  running  if  you  heard  little 
Totty  crying  at  the  other  end  of  the  house;  the 
voice  would  go  to  your  heart,  you  would  think 
the  dear  child  was  in  trouble  or  in  danger,  and 
you  could  n't  rest  without  running  to  help  her 
and  comfort  her." 

"Ah,"  said,  Mrs.  Poyser,  rising  and  walking 
towards  the  door,  "I  know  it  'ud  be  just  the 
same  if  I  was  to  talk  to  you  for  hours.  You'd 
make  me  the  same  answer  at  th'  end.  I  might 
as  well  talk  to  the  running  brook,  and  tell  it  to 
Stan'  still." 

The  causeway  outside  the  kitchen  door  was 
dry  enough  now  for  Mrs.  Poyser  to  stand  there 
quite  pleasantly  and  see  what  was  going  on  in 
the  yard,  the  gray  worsted  stocking  making  a 


112  ADAM   BEDE 

steady  progress  in  her  hands  all  the  while.  But 
she  had  not  been  standing  there  more  than  five 
minutes  before  she  came  in  again,  and  said  to 
Dinah,  in  rather  a  flurried,  awe-stricken  tone,  — 

"If  there  is  n't  Captain  Donnithorne  and  Mr. 
Irwine  a-coming  into  the  yard!  I'll  lay  my  life 
they  're  come  to  speak  about  your  preaching  on 
the  Green,  Dinah;  it's  you  must  answer  'em,  for 
I'm  dumb.  I've  said  enough  a'ready  about 
your  bringing  such  disgrace  upo'  your  uncle's 
family.  I  would  n't  ha'  minded  if  you'd  been 
Mr.  Poyser's  own  niece;  folks  must  put  up  wi' 
their  own  kin,  as  they  put  up  wi'  their  own 
noses,  —  it 's  their  own  flesh  and  blood.  But 
to  think  of  a  niece  o'  mine  being  cause  o'  my 
husband's  being  turned  out  of  his  farm,  and  me 
brought  him  no  fortin  but  my  savin's — " 

"Nay,  dear  aunt  Rachel,"  said  Dinah,  gently, 
"you've  no  cause  for  such  fears.  I've  strong 
assurance  that  no  evil  will  happen  to  you  and  my 
uncle  and  the  children  from  anything  I  've  done. 
I  did  n't  preach  without  direction." 

"Direction!  I  know  very  well  what  you 
mean  by  direction,"  said  Mrs.  Poyser,  knitting 
in  a  rapid  and  agitated  manner.  "When 
there's  a  bigger  maggot  than  usial  in  your  head, 
you  call  it  'direction;'  and  then  nothing  can 
stir  you,  —  you  look  like  the  statty  o'  the  outside 
o'  Treddles'on  church,  a-starin'  and  a-smilin' 
whether  it's  fair  weather  or  foul.  I  hanna  com- 
mon patience  with  you." 

By  this  time  the  two  gentlemen  had  reached 
the  palings,  and  had  got  down  from  their  horses : 
it  was  plain  they  meant  to  come  in.  Mrs.  Poy- 
ser advanced  to  the  door  to  meet  them,  courtesy- 


THE   HALL  FARM  113 

ing  low,  and  trembling  between  anger  with 
Dinah  and  anxiety  to  conduct  herself  with 
perfect  propriety  on  the  occasion;  for  in 
those  days  the  keenest  of  bucolic  minds  felt 
a  whispering  awe  at  the  sight  of  the  gentry, 
such  as  of  old  men  felt  when  they  stood  on 
tiptoe  to  watch  the  gods  passing  by  in  tall 
human  shape. 

"Well,  Mrs.  Poyser,  how  are  you  after  this 
stormy  morning.^"  said  Mr.  Irwane,  with  his 
stately  cordiality.  "Our  feet  are  quite  dry;  we 
shall  not  soil  your  beautiful  floor." 

"  Oh,  sir,  don't  mention  it,"  said  Mrs.  Poyser. 
"Will  you  and  the  Captain  please  to  walk  into 
the  parlour?" 

"No,  indeed,  thank  you,  Mrs.  Poyser,"  said 
the  Captain,  looking  eagerly  round  the  kitchen, 
as  if  his  eye  were  seeking  something  it  could  not 
find.  "I  delight  in  your  kitchen.  I  think  it  is 
the  most  charming  room  I  know.  I  should  like 
every  farmer's  wife  to  come  and  look  at  it  for 
a  pattern." 

" Oh,  you're  pleased  to  say  so,  sir.  Pray  take 
a  seat,"  said  Mrs.  Poyser,  relieved  a  little  by  this 
compliment  and  the  Captain's  evident  good- 
humour,  but  still  glancing  anxiously  at  Mr. 
Irwine,  who,  she  saw,  was  looking  at  Dinah  and 
advancing  towards  her. 

"Poyser  is  not  at  home,  is  he  .^"  said  Captain 
Donnithorne,  seating  himself  where  he  could  see 
along  the  short  passage  to  the  open  dairy- door. 

"No,  sir,  he  is  n't;  he's  gone  to  Rosseter  to 
see  Mr.  West,  the  factor,  about  the  wool.  But 
there's  father  i'  the  barn,  sir,  if  he'd  be  of  any 
use." 

VOL.  I — 8 


114  ADAM   BEDE 

"No,  thank  you;  I'll  just  look  at  the  whelps, 
and  leave  a  message  about  them  with  your  shep- 
herd. I  must  come  another  day  and  see  your 
husband;  I  want  to  have  a  consultation  with 
him  about  horses.  Do  you  know  when  he's 
likely  to  be  at  liberty.^" 

"Why,  sir,  you  can  hardly  miss  him,  except 
it's  o'  Treddles'on  market-day,  —  that's  of  a 
Friday,  you  know.  For  if  he's  anywhere  on  the 
farm,  we  can  send  for  him  in  a  minute.  If  we'd 
got  rid  o'  the  Scantlands,  we  should  have  no  out- 
lying fields;  and  I  should  be  glad  of  it,  for  if 
ever  anything  happens  he's  sure  to  be  gone  to 
the  Scantlands.  Things  allays  happen  so  con- 
trairy,  if  they've  a  chance;  and  it's  an  unnat'ral 
thing  to  have  one  bit  o'  your  farm  in  one  county 
and  all  the  rest  in  another." 

"Ah,  the  Scantlands  would  go  much  better 
with  Choyce's  farm,  especially  as  he  wants 
dairy-land  and  you've  got  plenty.  I  think 
yours  is  the  prettiest  farm  on  the  estate,  though ; 
and  do  you  know,  Mrs.  Poyser,  if  I  were  going 
to  marry  and  settle,  I  should  be  tempted  to  turn 
you  out,  and  do  up  this  fine  old  house,  and  turn 
farmer  myself." 

"Oh,  sir,"  said  Mrs.  Poyser,  rather  alarmed, 
"you  would  n't  like  it  at  all.  As  for  farming, 
it's  putting  money  into  your  pocket  wi'  your 
right  hand  and  fetching  it  out  wi'  your  left.  As 
fur  as  I  can  see,  it's  raising  victual  for  other 
folks,  and  just  getting  a  mouthful  for  yourself 
and  your  children  as  you  go  along.  Not  as 
you'd  be  like  a  poor  man  as  wants  to  get  his 
bread:  you  could  afford  to  lose  as  much  money 
as  you  liked  i'  farming;  but  it's  poor  fun  losing 


THE   HALL   FARM  115 

money,  I  should  think,  though  I  understan'  it's 
what  the  great  folks  i'  London  play  at  more  than 
anything.  For  my  husband  heard  at  market  as 
Lord  Dacey's  eldest  son  had  lost  thousands  upo' 
thousands  to  the  Prince  o'  Wales,  and  they  say 
my  lady  was  going  to  pawn  her  jewels  to  pay  for 
him.  But  you  know  more  about  that  than  I  do, 
sir.  But  as  for  farming,  sir,  I  canna  think  as 
you'd  like  it;  and  this  house  —  the  draughts  in 
it  are  enough  to  cut  you  through,  and  it's  my 
opinion  the  floors  upstairs  are  very  rotten,  and 
the  rats  i'  the  cellar  are  beyond  anything." 

"Why,  that's  a  terrible  picture,  Mrs.  Poyser. 
I  think  I  should  be  doing  you  a  service  to  turn 
you  out  of  such  a  place.  But  there's  no  chance 
of  that.  I'm  not  likely  to  settle  for  the  next 
twenty  years,  till  I'm  a  stout  gentleman  of  forty; 
and  my  grandfather  would  never  consent  to  part 
with  such  good  tenants  as  you." 

"Well,  sir,  if  he  thinks  so  well  o'  Mr.  Poyser 
for  a  tenant,  I  wish  you  could  put  in  a  word  for 
him  to  allow  us  some  new  gates  for  the  Five 
closes,  for  my  husband's  been  asking  and  asking 
till  he's  tired,  and  to  think  o'  what  he's  done  for 
the  farm,  and's  never  had  a  penny  allowed  him, 
be  the  times  bad  or  good.  And  as  I've  said  to 
my  husband  often  and  often,  I'm  sure  if  the 
Captain  had  anything  to  do  with  it,  it  would  n't 
be  so.  Not  as  I  wish  to  speak  disrespectful  o' 
them  as  have  got  the  power  i'  their  hands,  but 
it's  more  than  flesh  and  blood  'ull  bear  some- 
times, to  be  toiling  and  striving,  and  up  early 
and  down  late,  and  hardly  sleeping  a  wink  when 
you  lie  dow^n  for  thinking  as  the  cheese  may 
swell,  or  the  cows  may  slip  their  calf,  or  the 


116  ADAM   BEDE 

wheat  may  grow  green  again  i'  the  sheaf,  —  and 
after  all,  at  th'  end  o'  the  year,  it's  like  as  if 
you'd  been  cooking  a  feast  and  had  got  the  smell 
of  it  for  your  pains." 

Mrs.  Poyser,  once  launched  into  conversation, 
always  sailed  along  without  any  check  from  her 
preliminary  awe  of  the  gentry.  The  confidence 
she  felt  in  her  own  powers  of  exposition  was  a 
motive  force  that  overcame  all  resistance. 

"I'm  afraid  I  should  only  do  harm  instead 
of  good,  if  I  were  to  speak  about  the  gates,  Mrs. 
Poyser,"  said  the  Captain,  "  though  I  assure  you 
there's  no  man  on  the  estate  I  would  sooner  say 
a  word  for  than  your  husband.  I  know  his  farm 
is  in  better  order  than  any  other  within  ten  miles 
of  us;  and  as  for  the  kitchen,"  he  added,  smil- 
ing, "I  don't  believe  there's  one  in  the  kingdom 
to  beat  it.  By  the  by,  I've  never  seen  your 
dairy:  I  must  see  your  dairy,  Mrs.  Poyser." 

"Indeed,  sir,  it's  not  fit  for  you  to  go  in,  for 
Hetty's  in  the  middle  o'  making  the  butter,  for 
the  churning  was  thrown  late,  and  I'm  quite 
ashamed."  This  Mrs.  Poyser  said  blushing, 
and  believing  that  the  Captain  was  really  in- 
terested in  her  milk- pans,  and  would  adjust  his 
opinion  of  her  to  the  appearance  of  her  dairy. 

"Oh,  I've  no  doubt  it's  in  capital  order. 
Take  me  in,"  said  the  Captain,  himself  leading 
the  way,  while  Mrs.  Poyser  followed. 


CHAPTER    VII 

THE     DAIRY 


THE  dairy  was  certainly  worth  looking  at: 
it  was  a  scene  to  sicken  for  with  a  sort 
of  calenture  in  hot  and  dusty  streets,  — 
such  coolness,  such  purity,  such  fresh  fragrance 
of  new- pressed  cheese,  of  firm  butter,  of  wooden 
vessels  perpetually  bathed  in  pure  water;  such 
soft  colouring  of  red  earthenware  and  creamy 
surfaces,  brown  wood  and  polished  tin,  gray 
limestone  and  rich  orange-red  rust  on  the  iron 
weights  and  hooks  and  hinges.  But  one  gets 
only  a  confused  notion  of  these  details  when  they 
surround  a  distractingly  pretty  girl  of  seventeen, 
standing  on  little  pattens  and  rounding  her 
dimpled  arm  to  lift  a  pound  of  butter  out  of  the 
scale. 

Hetty  blushed  a  deep  rose-colour  when  Cap- 
tain Donnithorne  entered  the  dairy  and  spoke  to 
her;  but  it  was  not  at  all  a  distressed  blush,  for 
it  was  inwreathed  with  smiles  and  dimples,  and 
with  sparkles  from  under  long  curled  dark  eye- 
lashes; and  while  her  aunt  was  discoursing  to 
him  about  the  limited  amount  of  milk  that  was 
to  be  spared  for  butter  and  cheese  so  long  as  the 
calves  were  not  all  weaned,  and  a  large  quantity 
but  inferior  quality  of  milk  yielded  by  the  short- 
horn, which  had  been  bought  on  experiment, 
together  with  other  matters  which  must  be  in- 
teresting to  a  young  gentleman  who  would  one 


118  ADAM   BEDE 

day  be  a  landlord,  Hetty  tossed  and  patted  her 
pound  of  butter  with  quite  a  self-possessed, 
coquettish  air,  slyly  conscious  that  no  turn  of 
her  head  was  lost. 

There  are  various  orders  of  beauty,  causing 
men  to  make  fools  of  themselves  in  various 
styles,  from  the  desperate  to  the  sheepish;  but 
there  is  one  order  of  beauty  which  seems  made 
to  turn  the  heads  not  only  of  men,  but  of  all  in- 
telligent mammals,  even  of  women.  It  is  a 
beauty  like  that  of  kittens,  or  very  small  downy 
ducks  making  gentle  rippling  noises  with  their 
soft  bills,  or  babies  just  beginning  to  toddle  and 
to  engage  in  conscious  mischief,  — -  a  beauty 
w^ith  which  you  can  never  be  angry,  but  that 
you  feel  ready  to  crush  for  inability  to  compre- 
hend the  state  of  mind  into  which  it  throws  you. 
Hetty  Sorrel's  was  that  sort  of  beauty.  Her 
aunt,  Mrs.  Poyser,  who  professed  to  despise  all 
personal  attractions,  and  intended  to  be  the 
severest  of  mentors,  continually  gazed  at  Hetty's 
charms  by  the  sly,  fascinated  in  spite  of  her- 
self; and  after  administering  such  a  scolding  as 
naturally  flowed  from  her  anxiety  to  do  well  by 
her  husband's  niece,  —  who  had  no  mother  of 
her  own  to  scold  her,  poor  thing!  —  she  would 
often  confess  to  her  husband,  when  they  were 
safe  out  of  hearing,  that  she  firmly  believed, 
"the  naughtier  the  little  hussy  behaved,  the 
prettier  she  looked." 

It  is  of  little  use  for  me  to  tell  you  that  Hetty's 
cheek  was  like  a  rose-petal,  that  dimples  played 
about  her  pouting  lips,  that  her  large  dark  eyes 
hid  a  soft  roguishness  under  their  long  lashes, 
and  that  her  curly  hair,  though  all  pushed  back 


THE   DAIRY  119 

under  her  round  cap  while  she  was  at  work, 
stole  back  in  dark  delicate  rings  on  her  forehead 
and  about  her  white  shell-like  ears;  it  is  of  little 
use  for  me  to  say  how  lovely  was  the  contour  of 
her  pink-and-white  neckerchief,  tucked  into  her 
low  plum- coloured  stuff  bodice,  or  how  the  linen 
butter-making  apron,  with  its  bib,  seemed  a 
thing  to  be  imitated  in  silk  by  duchesses,  since 
it  fell  in  such  charming  lines,  or  how  her  brown 
stockings  and  thick- soled  buckled  shoes  lost  all 
that  clumsiness  which  they  must  certainly  have 
had  when  empty  of  her  foot  and  ankle,  —  of 
little  use,  unless  you  have  seen  a  woman  who 
affected  you  as  Hetty  affected  her  beholders ;  for 
otherwise,  though  you  might  conjure  up  the 
image  of  a  lovely  woman,  she  would  not  in  the 
least  resemble  that  distracting,  kitten-like 
maiden.  I  might  mention  all  the  divine  charms 
of  a  bright  spring  day;  but  if  you  had  never  in 
your  life  utterly  forgotten  yourself  in  straining 
your  eyes  after  the  mounting  lark,  or  in  wander- 
ing through  the  still  lanes  when  the  fresh- opened 
blossoms  fill  them  with  a  sacred  silent  beauty 
like  that  of  fretted  aisles,  where  would  be  the 
use  of  my  descriptive  catalogue  ?  I  could  never 
make  you  know  what  I  meant  by  a  bright  spring 
day.  Hetty's  was  a  spring- tide  beauty;  it  was 
the  beauty  of  young  frisking  things,  round- 
limbed,  gambolling,  circumventing  you  by  a 
false  air  of  innocence,  —  the  innocence  of  a 
young  star-browed  calf,  for  example,  that,  being 
inclined  for  a  promenade  out  of  bounds,  leads 
you  a  severe  steeple-chase  over  hedge  and  ditch, 
and  only  comes  to  a  stand  in  the  middle  of  a 
bog. 


120  ADAM   BEDE 

And  they  are  the  prettiest  attitudes  and  move~ 
ments  into  which  a  pretty  girl  is  thrown  in  mak- 
ing up  butter,  —  tossing  movements  that  give 
a  charming  curve  to  the  arm,  and  a  sideward 
inchnation  of  the  round  white  neck;  httle  pat- 
ting and  rolling  movements  with  the  palm  of 
the  hand,  and  nice  adaptations  and  finishings 
which  cannot  at  all  be  effected  without  a  great 
play  of  the  pouting  mouth  and  the  dark  eyes. 
And  then  the  butter  itself  seems  to  communi- 
cate a  fresh  charm,  —  it  is  so  pure,  so  sweet- 
scented;  it  is  turned  off  the  mould  with  such 
a  beautiful  firm  surface,  like  marble  in  a  pale 
yellow  light!  Moreover,  Hetty  was  particu- 
larly clever  at  making  up  the  butter;  it  was  the 
one  performance  of  hers  that  her  aunt  allowed 
to  pass  without  severe  criticism ;  so  she  handled 
it  with  all  the  grace  that  belongs  to  mastery. 

"  I  hope  you  will  be  ready  for  a  great  holiday 
on  the  30th  of  July,  Mrs.  Poyser,"  said  Captain 
Donnithorne,  when  he  had  sufficiently  admired 
the  dairy,  and  given  several  improvised  opinions 
on  Swede  turnips  and  short-horns.  "You 
know  what  is  to  happen  then,  and  I  shall  expect 
you  to  be  one  of  the  guests  who  come  earliest 
and  leave  latest.  Will  you  promise  me  your 
hand  for  two  dances.  Miss  Hetty  ?  If  I  don't 
get  your  promise  now,  I  know  I  shall  hardly 
have  a  chance,  for  all  the  smart  young  farmers 
will  take  care  to  secure  you." 

Hetty  smiled  and  blushed;  but  before  she 
could  answer,  Mrs.  Poyser  interposed,  scanda- 
lized at  the  mere  suggestion  that  the  young 
squire  could  be  excluded  by  any  meaner 
partners. 


THE   DAIRY  121 

Indeed,  sir,  you  are  very  kind  to  take  that 
notice  of  her.  And  I'm  sure,  whenever  you're 
pleased  to  dance  with  her,  she'll  be  proud  and 
thankful,  if  she  stood  still  all  the  rest  o'  th' 
evening." 

"Oh,  no,  no,  that  would  be  too  cruel  to  all  the 
other  young  fellows  who  can  dance.  But  you 
will  promise  me  two  dances,  won't  you.^"  the 
Captain  continued,  determined  to  make  Hetty 
look  at  him  and  speak  to  him. 

Hetty  dropped  the  prettiest  little  courtesy, 
and  stole  a  half- shy,  half- coquettish  glance  at 
him  as  she  said,  — 

"Yes,  thank  you,  sir." 

"And  you  must  bring  all  your  children,  you 
know,  Mrs.  Poyser;  your  little  Totty,  as  well 
as  the  boys.  I  want  all  the  youngest  children 
on  the  estate  to  be  there,  —  all  those  who  will 
be  fine  young  men  and  women  when  I'm  a  bald 
old  fellow." 

"Oh,  dear,  sir,  that  'ull  be  a  long  time  first," 
said  Mrs.  Poyser,  quite  overcome  at  the  young 
squire's  speaking  so  lightly  of  himself,  and 
thinking  how  her  husband  would  be  interested 
in  hearing  her  recount  this  remarkable  speci- 
men of  high-born  humour.  The  Captain  was 
thought  to  be  "very  full  of  his  jokes,"  and  was 
a  great  favourite  throughout  the  estate  on  ac- 
count of  his  free  manners.  Every  tenant  was 
quite  sure  things  w^ould  be  different  when  the 
reins  got  into  his  hands,  —  there  was  to  be  a 
millennial  abundance  of  new  gates,  allowances 
of  lime,  and  returns  of  ten  per  cent. 

"But  where  is  Totty  to-day.^"  he  said.  "I 
want  to  see  her." 


122  ADAM   BEDE 

"Where  is  the  little  un,  Hetty?"  said  Mrs. 
Poyser.     "She  came  in  here  not  long  ago." 

"I  don't  know.  She  went  into  the  brew- 
house  to  Nancy,  I  think." 

The  proud  mother,  unable  to  resist  the 
temptation  to  show  her  Totty,  passed  at  once 
into  the  back- kitchen  in  search  of  her,  not,  how- 
ever, without  misgivings  lest  something  should 
have  happened  to  render  her  person  and  attire 
unfit  for  presentation. 

"And  do  you  carry  the  butter  to  market  when 
you've  made  it.^"  said  the  Captain  to  Hetty, 
meanwhile. 

"Oh,  no,  sir,  not  when  it's  so  heavy:  I'm  not 
strong  enough  to  carry  it.  Alick  takes  it  on 
horseback." 

"No,  I'm  sure  your  pretty  arms  were  never 
meant  for  such  heavy  weights.  But  you  go  out 
a  walk  sometimes  these  pleasant  evenings,  don't 
you  ?  \Vhy  don't  you  have  a  walk  in  the  Chase 
sometimes,  now  it's  so  green  and  pleasant.'^  I 
hardly  ever  see  you  anywhere  except  at  home 
and  at  church." 

"Aunt  does  n't  like  me  to  go  a- walking  only 
when  I'm  going  somewhere,"  said  Hetty.  " But 
I  go  through  the  Chase  sometimes." 

"  And  don't  you  ever  go  to  see  Mrs.  Best,  the 
housekeeper  ?  I  think  I  saw  you  once  in  the 
housekeeper's  room." 

"It  isn't  Mrs.  Best,  it's  Mrs.  Pomfret,  the 
lady's  maid,  as  I  go  to  see.  She's  teaching  me 
tent-stitch  and  the  lace-mending.  I'm  going 
to  tea  with  her  to-morrow^  afternoon." 

The  reason  why  there  had  been  space  for  this 
tete-a-tete  can  only  be  known  by  looking  into  the 


THE    DAIRY 


Hetty  dole  a  halffihy,  htilf-coqiiettivh  glance  at  him  as 
she  said,  ''^  Ve.'i,  thank  i/ou,  sir''''  ■  lue 


^^f^smtu 


THE   DAIRY  123 

back- kitchen,  where  Totty  had  been  discovered 
rubbing  a  stray  blue- bag  against  her  nose,  and 
in  the  same  moment  allowing  some  liberal  in- 
digo drops  to  fall  on  her  afternoon  pinafore. 
But  now  she  appeared  holding  her  mother's 
hand,  —  the  end  of  her  round  nose  rather  shiny 
from  a  recent  and  hurried  application  of  soap 
and  water. 

"Here  she  is!"  said  the  Captain,  lifting 
her  up  and  setting  her  on  the  low  stone  shelf. 
"Here's  Totty!  By  the  by,  what's  her  other 
name  ?     She   was  n't   christened   Totty." 

"Oh,  sir,  we  call  her  sadly  out  of  her  name. 
Charlotte's  her  christened  name.  It's  a  name 
i'  Mr.  Poyser's  family:  his  grandmother  was 
named  Charlotte.  But  we  began  with  calling 
her  Lotty,  and  now  it's  got  to  Totty.  To  be 
sure,  it's  more  like  a  name  for  a  dog  than  a 
Christian  child." 

"  Totty 's  a  capital  name.  Why,  she  looks  like 
a  Totty.  Has  she  got  a  pocket  on.^"  said  the 
Captain,  feeling  in  his  own  waistcoat  pockets. 

Totty  immediately  with  great  gravity  lifted 
up  her  frock,  and  showed  a  tiny  pink  pocket,  at 
present  in  a  state  of  collapse. 

"It  dot  not'in'  in  it,"  she  said,  as  she  looked 
down  at  it  very  earnestly. 

"No!  what  a  pity!  such  a  pretty  pocket. 
Well,  I  think  I've  got  some  things  in  mine  that 
will  make  a  pretty  jingle  in  it.  Yes!  I  declare 
I've  got  five  little  round  silver  things,  and  hear 
what  a  pretty  noise  they  make  in  Totty's  pink 
pocket." 

Here  he  shook  the  pocket  with  the  five  six- 
pences in  it,  and  Totty  showed  her  teeth  and 


124  ADAM   BEDE 

wrinkled  her  nose  in  great  glee;  but  divining 
that  there  was  nothing  more  to  be  got  by  stay- 
ing, she  jumped  off  the  shelf  and  ran  away  to 
jingle  her  pocket  in  the  hearing  of  Nancy,  while 
her  mother  called  after  her,  — 

"Oh,  for  shame,  you  naughty  gell!  not  to 
thank  the  Captain  for  what  he's  given  you. 
I'm  sure,  sir,  it's  very  kind  of  you;  but  she's 
spoiled  shameful;  her  father  won't  have  her 
said  nay  in  anything,  and  there's  no  manag- 
ing her.  It's  being  the  youngest,  and  th'  only 
gell." 

"Oh,  she's  a  funny  little  fatty;  I  wouldn't 
have  her  different.  But  I  must  be  going  now, 
for  I  suppose  the  Rector  is  waiting  for  me." 

With  a  "good-by,"  a  bright  glance,  and  a  bow 
to  Hetty,  Arthur  left  the  dairy.  But  he  was 
mistaken  in  imagining  himself  waited  for.  The 
Rector  had  been  so  much  interested  in  his  con- 
versation with  Dinah  that  he  would  not  have 
chosen  to  close  it  earlier;  and  you  shall  hear  now 
what  they  had  been  saying  to  each  other. 


CHAPTER    VIII 

A     VOCATION 


DINAH,  who  had  risen  when  the  gentlemen 
came  m,  but  still  kept  hold  of  the  sheet 
she  was  mending,  courtesied  respect- 
fully when  she  saw  Mr.  Irwine  looking  at  her 
and  advancing  towards  her.  He  had  never 
yet  spoken  to  her,  or  stood  face  to  face  with  her ; 
and  her  first  thought,  as  her  eyes  met  his,  was, 
"What  a  well-favoured  countenance!  Oh  that 
the  good  seed  might  fall  on  that  soil,  for  it  would 
surely  flourish!"  The  agreeable  impression 
must  have  been  mutual,  for  Mr.  Irwine  bowed 
to  her  with  a  benignant  deference,  which  would 
have  been  equally  in  place  if  she  had  been  the 
most  dignified  lady  of  his  acquaintance. 

"You  are  only  a  visitor  in  this  neighbourhood 
I  think  ?"  were  his  first  words,  as  he  seated  him- 
self opposite  to  her. 

"No,  sir,  I  come  from  Snowfield,  in  Stony- 
shire.  But  my  aunt  was  very  kind,  wanting 
me  to  have  rest  from  my  work  there,  because 
I'd  been  ill,  and  she  invited  me  to  come  and 
stay  with  her  for  a  while." 

"Ah,  I  remember  Snow^eld  very  well;  I 
once  had  occasion  to  go  there.  It's  a  dreary, 
bleak  place.  They  were  building  a  cotton- mill 
there;  but  that's  many  years  ago  now.  I  sup- 
pose the  place  is  a  good  deal  changed  by  the  em- 
ployment that  mill  must  have  brought." 


126  ADAM   BEDE 

'*It  is  changed  so  far  as  the  mill  has  brought 
people  there,  who  get  a  livelihood  for  themselves 
by  working  in  it,  and  make  it  better  for  the 
tradesfolks.  I  work  in  it  myself,  and  have  rea- 
son to  be  grateful,  for  thereby  I  have  enough 
and  to  spare.  But  it's  still  a  bleak  place,  as  you 
say,   sir,  —  very   different  from   this   country." 

"You  have  relations  living  there,  probably, 
so  that  you  are  attached  to  the  place  as  your 
home  ?  " 

"I  had  an  aunt  there  once;  she  brought  me 
up,  for  I  was  an  orphan.  But  she  was  taken 
away  seven  years  ago,  and  I  have  no  other  kin- 
dred that  I  know  of,  besides  my  aunt  Poyser, 
who  is  very  good  to  me,  and  would  have  me 
come  and  live  in  this  country,  which  to  be  sure 
is  a  good  land,  wherein  they  eat  bread  without 
scarceness.  But  I'm  not  free  to  leave  Snow- 
field,  where  I  was  first  planted,  and  have  grown 
deep  into  it,  like  the  small  grass  on  the  hill- 
top." 

"Ah,  I  dare  say  you  have  many  religious 
friends  and  companions  there;  you  are  a 
Methodist,  —  a  Wesleyan,  I  think  .^" 

"Yes,  my  aunt  at  Snowfield  belonged  to  the 
Society,  and  I  have  cause  to  be  thankful  for  the 
privileges  I  have  had  thereby  from  my  earliest 
childhood." 

"And  have  you  been  long  in  the  habit  of 
preaching  ?  —  for  I  understand  you  preached 
at  Hayslope  last  night." 

"I  first  took  to  the  work  four  years  since, 
when  I  was  twenty-one." 

"Your  Society  sanctions  women's  preaching, 
then?" 


A  VOCATION  127 

"It  does  n't  forbid  them,  sir,  when  they've  a 
clear  call  for  the  work,  and  when  their  ministry 
is  owned  by  the  conversion  of  sinners  and  the 
strengthening  of  God's  people.  Mrs.  Fletcher, 
as  you  may  have  heard  about,  was  the  first 
woman  to  preach  in  the  Society,  I  believe, 
before  she  was  married,  when  she  was  Miss 
Bosanquet;  and  Mr.  Wesley  approved  of  her 
undertaking  the  work.  She  had  a  great  gift, 
and  there  are  many  others  now  living  who  are 
precious  fellow- helpers  in  the  work  of  the  minis- 
try. I  understand  there's  been  voices  raised 
against  it  in  the  Society  of  late,  but  I  cannot 
but  think  their  counsel  will  come  to  nought.  It 
is  n't  for  men  to  make  channels  for  God's  Spirit, 
as  they  make  channels  for  the  water-courses, 
and   say,   'Flow  here,    but   flow   not   there.'  " 

"  But  don't  you  find  some  danger  among  your 
people  —  I  don't  mean  to  say  that  it  is  so  with 
you,  far  from  it  —  but  don't  you  find  sometimes 
that  both  men  and  women  fancy  themselves 
channels  for  God's  Spirit,  and  are  quite  mis- 
taken, so  that  they  set  about  a  work  for  which 
they  are  unfit,  and  bring  holy  things  into 
contempt.^" 

"Doubtless  it  is  so  sometimes;  for  there  have 
been  evil-doers  among  us  who  have  sought  to 
deceive  the  brethren,  and  some  there  are  who 
deceive  their  own  selves.  But  we  are  not  with- 
out discipline  and  correction  to  put  a  check  upon 
these  things.  There's  a  very  strict  order  kept 
among  us,  and  the  brethren  and  sisters  watch 
for  each  other's  souls  as  they  that  must  give  ac- 
count. They  don't  go  every  one  his  own  way 
and  say,  'iVm  I  my  brother's  keeper.^' '' 


128  ADAM   BEDE 

"  But  tell  me  —  if  I  may  ask,  and  I  am  really 
interested  in  knowing  it  —  how  you  first  came 
to  think  of  preaching?" 

"Indeed,  sir,  I  did  n't  think  of  it  at  all.  I'd 
been  used  from  the  time  I  was  sixteen  to  talk  to 
the  little  children  and  teach  them,  and  some- 
times I  had  had  my  heart  enlarged  to  speak  in 
class,  and  was  much  drawn  out  in  prayer  with 
the  sick.  But  I  had  felt  no  call  to  preach;  for 
when  I'm  not  greatly  wrought  upon,  I'm  too 
much  given  to  sit  still  and  keep  by  myself:  it 
seems  as  if  I  could  sit  silent  all  day  long  with 
the  thought  of  God  overflowing  my  soul,  —  as 
the  pebbles  lie  bathed  in  the  Willow  Brook.  For 
thoughts  are  so  great,  —  aren't  they,  sir? 
They  seem  to  lie  upon  us  like  a  deep  flood; 
and  it's  my  besetment  to  forget  where  I  am 
and  everything  about  me,  and  lose  myself  in 
thoughts  that  I  could  give  no  account  of,  for  I 
could  neither  make  a  beginning  nor  ending  of 
them  in  words.  That  was  my  way  as  long 
as  I  can  remember;  but  sometimes  it  seemed 
as  if  speech  came  to  me  without  any  will  of  my 
own,  and  words  were  given  to  me  that  came  out 
as  the  tears  come,  because  our  hearts  are  full 
and  we  can't  help  it.  And  those  were  always 
times  of  great  blessing,  though  I  had  never 
thought  it  could  be  so  with  me  before  a  congre- 
gation of  people.  But,  sir,  we  are  led  on,  like 
the  little  children,  by  a  way  that  we  know  not. 
I  was  called  to  preach  quite  suddenly,  and  since 
then  I  have  never  been  left  in  doubt  about  the 
work  that  was  laid  upon  me." 

"But  tell  me  the  circumstances, — just  how 
it  was,  the  very  day  you  began  to  preach." 


A   VOCATION  129 

"It  was  one  Sunday  I  walked  with  brother 
Marlowe,  who  was  an  aged  man,  one  of  the 
local  preachers,  all  the  way  to  Hetton- Deeps,  — 
that's  a  village  where  the  people  get  their  living 
by  working  in  the  lead- mines,  and  where  there's 
no  church  nor  preacher,  but  they  live  like  sheep 
without  a  shepherd.  It's  better  than  twelve 
miles  from  Snowfield,  so  we  set  out  early  in  the 
morning,  for  it  was  summer-time;  and  I  had  a 
wonderful  sense  of  the  Divine  love  as  we  walked 
over  the  hills,  where  there's  no  trees,  you  know, 
sir,  as  there  is  here,  to  make  the  sky  look  smaller, 
but  you  see  the  heavens  stretched  out  like  a  tent, 
and  you  feel  the  everlasting  arms  around  you. 
But  before  we  got  to  Hetton,  brother  Marlowe 
was  seized  with  a  dizziness  that  made  him  afraid 
of  falling,  for  he  overworked  himself  sadly,  at 
his  years,  in  watching  and  praying,  and  walking 
so  many  miles  to  speak  the  Word,  as  well  as 
carrying  on  his  trade  of  linen- weaving.  And 
when  we  got  to  the  village,  the  people  were  ex- 
pecting him,  for  he'd  appointed  the  time  and  the 
place  when  he  was  there  before,  and  such  of 
them  as  cared  to  hear  the  Word  of  Life  were 
assembled  on  a  spot  where  the  cottages  was 
thickest,  so  as  others  might  be  drawn  to  come. 
But  he  felt  as  he  could  n't  stand  up  to  preach, 
and  he  was  forced  to  lie  down  in  the  first  of  the 
cottages  w^e  came  to.  So  I  went  to  tell  the  peo- 
ple, thinking  we'd  go  into  one  of  the  houses, 
and  I  would  read  and  pray  with  them.  But  as 
I  passed  along  by  the  cottages,  and  saw  the  aged 
and  trembling  women  at  the  doors,  and  the  hard 
looks  of  the  men,  who  seemed  to  have  their  eyes 
no  more  filled  with  the  sight  of  the  Sabbath 

VOL.  I — 9 


130  ADAM   BEDE 

morning  than  if  they  had  been  dumb  oxen  that 
never  looked  up  to  the  sky,  I  felt  a  great  move- 
ment in  my  soul,  and  I  trembled  as  if  I  was 
shaken  by  a  strong  spirit  entering  into  my  weak 
body.  And  I  went  to  where  the  little  flock  of 
people  was  gathered  together,  and  stepped  on 
the  low  wall  that  was  built  against  the  green  hill- 
side, and  I  spoke  the  words  that  were  given  to 
me  abundantly.  And  they  all  came  round  me 
out  of  all  the  cottages,  and  many  wept  over  their 
sins,  and  have  since  been  joined  to  the  Lord. 
That  was  the  beginning  of  my  preaching,  sir, 
and  I've  preached  ever  since." 

Dinah  had  let  her  work  fall  during  this  narra- 
tive, which  she  uttered  in  her  usual  simple  way, 
but  with  that  sincere,  articulate,  thrilling  treble 
by  which  she  always  mastered  her  audience. 
She  stooped  now  to  gather  up  her  sewing,  and 
then  went  on  with  it  as  before.  Mr.  Irwine  was 
deeply  interested.  He  said  to  himself:  "He 
must  be  a  miserable  prig  who  would  act  the 
pedagogue  here:  one  might  as  well  go  and  lec- 
ture the  trees  for  growing  in  their  own  shape." 

"  And  you  never  feel  any  embarrassment  from 
the  sense  of  your  youth,  —  that  you  are  a  lovely 
young  woman  on  whom  men's  eyes  are  fixed  ?" 
he  said  aloud. 

"No,  I've  no  room  for  such  feelings,  and 
don't  believe  the  people  ever  take  notice  about 
that.  I  think,  sir,  when  God  makes  his  pres- 
ence felt  through  us,  we  are  like  the  burning 
bush:  Moses  never  took  any  heed  what  sort  of 
bush  it  was,  —  he  only  saw  the  brightness  of 
the  Lord.  I've  preached  to  as  rough,  ignorant 
people  as  can  be  in  the  villages  about  Snowfield, 


A  VOCATION  131 

—  men  that  looked  very  hard  and  wild ;  but 
they  never  said  an  uncivil  word  to  me,  and  often 
thanked  me  kindly  as  they  made  way  for  me  to 
pass  through  the  midst  of  them." 

"  That  I  can  believe,  —  that  I  can  well  be- 
lieve," said  Mr.  Irwine,  emphatically.  "And 
what  did  you  think  of  your  hearers  last  night, 
now  ?     Did  you  find  them  quiet  and  attentive  T'' 

"Very  quiet,  sir;  but  I  saw  no  signs  of  any 
great  work  upon  them,  except  in  a  young  girl 
named  Bessy  Cranage,  towards  whom  my  heart 
yearned  greatly,  when  my  eyes  first  fell  on  her 
blooming  youth,  given  up  to  folly  and  vanity. 
I  had  some  private  talk  and  prayer  with  her 
afterwards,  and  I  trust  her  heart  is  touched. 
But  I've  noticed  that  in  these  villages  where  the 
people  lead  a  quiet  life  among  the  green  pastures 
and  the  still  waters,  tilling  the  ground  and  tend- 
ing the  cattle,  there's  a  strange  deadness  to  the 
Word,  as  different  as  can  be  from  the  great 
towns,  like  Leeds,  where  I  once  went  to  visit  a 
holy  woman  who  preaches  there.  It's  wonder- 
ful how  rich  is  the  harvest  of  souls  up  those 
high-walled  streets,  where  you  seemed  to  walk 
as  in  a  prison  yard,  and  the  ear  is  deafened  with 
the  sounds  of  worldly  toil.  I  think  maybe  it  is 
because  the  promise  is  sweeter  when  this  life  is 
so  dark  and  weary,  and  the  soul  gets  more  hun- 
gry when  the  body  is  ill  at  ease." 

"Why,  yes,  our  farm- labourers  are  not  easily 
roused.  They  take  life  almost  as  slowly  as  the 
sheep  and  cows.  But  we  have  some  intelligent 
workmen  about  here.  I  dare  say  you  know  the 
Bedes;    Seth  Bede,  by  the  by,  is  a  Methodist." 

"  Yes,  I  know  Seth  well,  and  his  brother  Adam 


132  ADAM   BEDE 

a  little.  Seth  is  a  gracious  young  man,  —  sin- 
cere and  without  offence;  and  Adam  is  like  the 
patriarch  Joseph,  for  his  great  skill  and  knowl- 
edge, and  the  kindness  he  shows  to  his  brother 
and  his  parents." 

"Perhaps  you  don't  know  the  trouble  that  has 
just  happened  to  them  ?  Their  father,  Matthias 
Bede,  was  drowned  in  the  Willow  Brook  last 
night,  not  far  from  his  own  door.  I'm  going 
now  to  see  Adam." 

"Ah,  their  poor  aged  mother!"  said  Dinah, 
dropping  her  hands,  and  looking  before  her  with 
pitying  eyes,  as  if  she  saw  the  object  of  her 
sympathy.  "She  will  mourn  heavily;  for  Seth 
has  told  me  she's  of  an  anxious,  troubled  heart. 
I  must  go  and  see  if  I  can  give  her  any 
help." 

As  she  rose  and  was  beginning  to  fold  up  her 
work.  Captain  Donnithorne,  having  exhausted 
all  plausible  pretexts  for  remaining  among  the 
milk- pans,  came  out  of  the  dairy,  followed  by 
Mrs.  Poyser.  Mr.  Irwine  now  rose  also,  and 
advancing  towards  Dinah,  held  out  his  hand 
and  said,  — 

"  Good-by.  I  hear  you  are  going  away  soon; 
but  this  will  not  be  the  last  visit  you  will  pay 
your  aunt,  — -  so  we  shall  meet  again,  I  hope." 

His  cordiality  towards  Dinah  set  all  Mrs. 
Poyser's  anxieties  at  rest,  and  her  face  was 
brighter  than  usual,  as  she  said,  — - 

"I've  never  asked  after  Mrs.  Irwine  and  the 
Miss  Irwines,  sir;  I  hope  they're  as  well  as 
usual." 

"Yes,  thank  you,  Mrs.  Poyser,  except  that 
Miss  Anne  has  one  of  her  bad  headaches  to-day. 


A   VOCATION  133 

By  the  by,  we  all  liked  that  nice  cream- cheese 
you  sent  us,  —  my  mother  especially." 

"I'm  very  glad,  indeed,  sir.  It  is  but  seldom 
I  make  one,  but  I  remembered  Mrs.  Irwine  was 
fond  of  'em.  Please  to  give  my  duty  to  her,  and 
to  Miss  Kate  and  Miss  Anne.  They've  never 
been  to  look  at  my  poultry  this  long  while,  and 
I've  got  some  beautiful  speckled  chickens, 
black  and  white,  as  Miss  Kate  might  like  to 
have  some  of  amongst  hers." 

"Well,  I'll  tell  her;  she  must  come  and  see 
them.  Good-by,"  said  the  Rector,  mounting 
his  horse. 

"  Just  ride  slov/ly  on,  Irwine,"  said  Captain 
Donnithorne,  mounting  also.  "I'll  overtake 
you  in  three  minutes.  I'm  only  going  to  speak 
to  the  shepherd  about  the  whelps.  Good-by, 
Mrs.  Poyser;  tell  your  husband  I  shall  come 
and  have  a  long  talk  with  him  soon." 

Mrs.  Poyser  courtesied  duly,  and  watched  the 
two  horses  until  they  had  disappeared  from  the 
yard,  amidst  great  excitement  on  the  part  of 
the  pigs  and  the  poultry,  and  under  the  furious 
indignation  of  the  bull- dog,  who  performed  a 
Pyrrhic  dance  that  every  moment  seemed  to 
threaten  the  breaking  of  his  chain.  Mrs. 
Poyser  delighted  in  this  noisy  exit;  it  was  a 
fresh  assurance  to  her  that  the  farmyard  was 
well  guarded,  and  that  no  loiterers  could  enter 
unobserved;  and  it  was  not  until  the  gate  had 
closed  behind  the  Captain  that  she  turned  into 
the  kitchen  again,  where  Dinah  stood  with  her 
bonnet  in  her  hand,  waiting  to  speak  to  her 
aunt,  before  she  set  out  for  Lisbeth  Bede's 
cottage. 


1S4  ADAM  BEDE 

Mrs.  Poyser,  however,  though  she  noticed  the 
bonnet,  deferred  remarking  on  it  until  she  had 
disburdened  herself  of  her  surprise  at  Mr.  Ir- 
wine's  behaviour, 

"Why,  Mr.  Irwine  wasn't  angry,  then.^ 
What  did  he  say  to  you,  Dinah  ?  Did  n't  he 
scold  you  for  preaching.?" 

"No,  he  was  not  at  all  angry;  he  was  very 
friendly  to  me.  I  was  quite  drawn  out  to  speak 
to  him;  I  hardly  know  how,  for  I  had  always 
thought  of  him  as  a  worldly  Sadducee.  But 
his  countenance  is  as  pleasant  as  the  morning 
sunshine." 

"Pleasant!  and  what  else  did  y'  expect  to 
find  him  but  pleasant.?"  said  Mrs.  Poyser,  im- 
patiently, resuming  her  knitting.  "I  should 
think  his  countenance  is  pleasant  indeed!  and 
him  a  gentleman  born,  and  's  got  a  mother  like 
a  picter.  You  may  go  the  country  round,  and 
not  find  such  another  woman  turned  sixty- six. 
It's  summat-like  to  see  such  a  man  as  that  i'  the 
desk  of  a  Sunday!  As  I  say  to  Poyser,  it's  like 
looking  at  a  full  crop  o'  wheat,  or  a  pasture  with 
a  fine  dairy  o'  cows  in  it;  it  makes  you  think  the 
world  's  comfortable-like.  But  as  for  such  crea- 
turs  as  you  jNIetliodisses  run  after,  I'd  as  soon 
go  to  look  at  a  lot  o'  bare-ribbed  runts  on  a  com- 
mon. Fine  folks  they  are  to  tell  you  what's 
right,  as  look  as  if  they'd  never  tasted  nothing 
better  than  bacon-sword  and  sour-cake  i'  their 
lives.  But  what  did  Mr.  Irwine  say  to  you 
about  that  fool's  trick  o'  preaching  on  the 
Green.?" 

"He  only  said  he'd  heard  of  it;  he  didn't 
seem   to  feel    any  displeasure    about   it.     But, 


A  VOCATION  135 

dear  aunt,  don't  think  any  more  about  that. 
He  told  me  something  that  I'm  sure  will 
cause  you  sorrow,  as  it  does  me.  Thias  Bede 
was  drowned  last  night  in  the  Willow  Brook, 
and  I'm  thinking  that  the  aged  mother  will  be 
greatly  in  need  of  comfort.  Perhaps  I  can  be 
of  use  to  her,  so  I  have  fetched  my  bonnet  and 
am  going  to  set  out." 

"Dear  heart,  dear  heart!  But  you  must  have 
a  cup  o'  tea  first,  child,"  said  Mrs.  Poyser,  fall- 
ing at  once  from  the  key  of  B  with  five  sharps 
to  the  frank  and  genial  C.  "The  kettle's  boil- 
ing, —  we'll  have  it  ready  in  a  minute;  and  the 
young  uns  'uU  be  in  and  wanting  theirs  directly. 
I'm  quite  willing  you  should  go  and  see  th'  old 
woman,  for  you're  one  as  is  allays  welcome  in 
trouble,  Methodist  or  no  Methodist;  but,  for 
the  matter  o'  that,  it's  the  flesh  and  blood  folks 
are  made  on  as  makes  the  difference.  Some 
cheeses  are  made  o'  skimmed  milk  and  some  o' 
new  milk,  and  it's  no  matter  what  you  call  'em, 
you  may  tell  which  is  which  by  the  look  and  the 
smell.  But  as  to  Thias  Bede,  he's  better  out 
o'  the  way  nor  in,  —  God  forgi'  me  for  saying 
so,  —  for  he's  done  little  this  ten  year  but  make 
trouble  for  them  as  belonged  to  him;  and  I 
think  it  'ud  be  well  for  you  to  take  a  little  bottle 
o'  rum  for  th'  old  woman,  for  I  dare  say  she's 
got  never  a  drop  o'  nothing  to  comfort  her  in- 
side. Sit  down,  child,  and  be  easy,  for  you 
sha'n't  stir  out  till  you've  had  a  cup  o'  tea,  and 
so  I  tell  you." 

During  the  latter  part  of  this  speech  Mrs. 
Poyser  had  been  reaching  down  the  tea-things 
from  the  shelves,  and  was  on  her  way  towards 


136  ADAM   BEDE 

the  pantry  for  the  loaf  (followed  close  by  Totty, 
who  had  made  her  appearance  on  the  rattling 
of  the  teacups),  when  Hetty  came  out  of  the 
dairy,  relieving  her  tired  arms  by  lifting  them 
up,  and  clasping  her  hands  at  the  back  of  her 
head. 

"Molly,"  she  said  rather  languidly,  "just  run 
out  and  get  me  a  bunch  of  dock- leaves;  the 
butter's  ready  to  pack  up  now." 

"D'  you  hear  what's  happened,  Hetty .'*" 
said  her  aunt. 

"No;  how  should  I  hear  anything.^"  was 
the  answer,  in  a  pettish  tone. 

"Not  as  you'd  care  much,  I  dare  say,  if  you 
did  hear;  for  you're  too  feather-headed  to  mind 
if  everybody  was  dead,  so  as  you  could  stay  up- 
stairs a- dressing  yourself  for  two  hours  by  the 
clock.  But  anybody  beside  yourself  'ud  mind 
about  such  things  happening  to  them  as  think 
a  deal  more  of  you  than  you  deserve.  But 
Adam  Bede  and  all  his  kin  might  be  drownded 
for  what  you'd  care,  —  you'd  be  perking  at  the 
glass  the  next  minute." 

"Adam  Bede  —  drowned.?"  said  Hetty, 
letting  her  arms  fall  and  looking  rather 
bewildered,  but  suspecting  that  her  aunt 
was  as  usual  exaggerating  with  a  didactic 
purpose. 

"No,  my  dear,  no,"  said  Dinah,  kindly, — 
for  Mrs.  Poyser  had  passed  on  to  the  pantry 
without  deigning  more  precise  information,  — 
"not  Adam.  Adam's  father,  the  old  man,  is 
drowned.  He  was  drowned  last  night  in  the 
Willow  Brook.  Mr.  Irwine  has  just  told  me 
about  it." 


A  VOCATION  137 

"Oh,  how  dreadful!"  said  Hetty,  looking 
serious  but  not  deeply  affected;  and  as  Molly 
now  entered  with  the  dock- leaves,  she  took  them 
silently  and  returned  to  the  dairy  without  asking 
further  questions. 


CHAPTER  IX 

Hetty's    world 


WHILE  she  adjusted  the  broad  leaves  that 
set  off  the  pale  fragrant  butter  as  the 
primrose  is  set  oft*  by  its  nest  of  green, 
I  am  afraid  Hetty  was  thinking  a  great  deal 
more  of  the  looks  Captain  Donnithorne  had  cast 
at  her  than  of  Adam  and  his  troubles.  Bright, 
admiring  glances  from  a  handsome  young  gen- 
tleman, with  white  hands,  a  gold  chain,  occa- 
sional regimentals,  and  wealth  and  grandeur 
immeasurable,  —  those  were  the  warm  rays 
that  set  poor  Hetty's  heart  vibrating,  and  play- 
ing its  little  foolish  tunes  over  and  over  again. 
We  do  not  hear  that  Memnon's  statue  gave 
forth  its  melody  at  all  under  the  rushing  of  the 
mightiest  wind,  or  in  response  to  any  other  in- 
fluence divine  or  human  than  certain  short-lived 
sunbeams  of  morning;  and  w^e  must  learn  to 
accommodate  ourselves  to  the  discovery  that 
some  of  those  cunningly  fashioned  instruments 
called  human  souls  have  only  a  very  limited 
range  of  music,  and  will  not  vibrate  in  the  least 
under  a  touch  that  fills  others  with  tremulous 
rapture  or  quivering  agony. 

Hetty  was  quite  used  to  the  thought  that  peo- 
ple liked  to  look  at  her.  She  was  not  blind  to 
the  fact  that  young  Luke  Britton  of  Broxton 
came  to  Hayslope  Church  on  a  Sunday  after- 
noon on  purpose  that  he  might  see  her ;  and  that 


HETTY'S   WORLD  139 

he  would  have  made  much  more  decided  ad- 
vances if  her  uncle  Poyser,  thinking  but  lightly 
of  a  young  man  whose  father's  land  was  so  foul 
as  old  Luke  Britton's,  had  not  forbidden  her 
aunt  to  encourage  him  by  any  civilities.  She 
was  aware,  too,  that  Mr.  Craig,  the  gardener 
at  the  Chase,  was  over  head  and  ears  in  love 
with  her,  and  had  lately  made  unmistakable 
avowals  in  luscious  strawberries  and  hyper- 
bolical peas.  She  knew  still  better,  that  Adam 
Bede,  —  tall,  upright,  clever,  brave  Adam  Bede, 
—  who  carried  such  authority  with  all  the  peo- 
ple round  about,  and  whom  her  uncle  was  al- 
ways delighted  to  see  of  an  evening,  saying  that 
"Adam  knew  a  fine  sight  more  o'  the  natur  o' 
things  than  those  as  thought  themselves  his 
betters,"  —  she  knew  that  this  Adam,  who  was 
often  rather  stern  to  other  people,  and  not  much 
given  to  run  after  the  lasses,  could  be  made  to 
turn  pale  or  red  any  day  by  a  word  or  a  look 
from  her.  Hetty's  sphere  of  comparison  was 
not  large,  but  she  could  n't  help  perceiving  that 
Adam  was  "something  like"  a  man;  always 
knew  what  to  say  about  things,  could  tell  her 
uncle  how  to  prop  the  hovel,  and  had  mended 
the  churn  in  no  time;  knew,  with  only  looking 
at  it,  the  value  of  the  chestnut- tree  that  was 
blown  down,  and  why  the  damp  came  in  the 
walls,  and  what  they  must  do  to  stop  the  rats; 
and  wrote  a  beautiful  hand  that  you  could  read 
off,  and  could  do  figures  in  his  head,  —  a  degree 
of  accomplishment  totally  unknown  among  the 
richest  farmers  of  that  countryside.  Not  at  all 
like  that  slouching  Luke  Britton,  who,  when 
she  once  walked  with  him   all   the  way  from 


140  ADAM   BEDE 

Broxton  to  Hayslope,  had  only  broken  silence 
to  remark  that  the  gray  goose  had  begun  to  lay. 
And  as  for  Mr.  Craig,  the  gardener,  he  was  a 
sensible  man  enough,  to  be  sure,  but  he  was 
knock-kneed,  and  had  a  queer  sort  of  sing-song 
in  his  talk;  moreover,  on  the  most  charitable 
supposition,  he  must  be  far  on  the  way  to  forty. 

Hetty  was  quite  certain  her  uncle  wanted  her 
to  encourage  Adam,  and  would  be  pleased  for 
her  to  marry  him.  For  those  were  times  when 
there  was  no  rigid  demarcation  of  rank  between 
the  farmer  and  the  respectable  artisan,  and  on 
the  home  hearth  as  well  as  in  the  public  house 
they  might  be  seen  taking  their  jug  of  ale  to- 
gether; the  farmer  having  a  latent  sense  of 
capital,  and  of  weight  in  parish  affairs,  which 
sustained  him  under  his  conspicuous  inferiority 
in  conversation.  Martin  Poyser  was  not  a  fre- 
quenter of  public  houses,  but  he  liked  a  friendly 
chat  over  his  own  home-brewed;  and  though  it 
was  pleasant  to  lay  down  the  law  to  a  stupid 
neighbour  who  had  no  notion  how  to  make  the 
best  of  his  farm,  it  was  also  an  agreeable  variety 
to  learn  something  from  a  clever  fellow  like 
Adam  Bede.  Accordingly,  for  the  last  three 
years  —  ever  since  he  had  superintended  the 
building  of  the  new  barn  —  Adam  had  always 
been  made  welcome  at  the  Hall  Farm,  especially 
of  a  winter  evening,  when  the  whole  family,  in 
patriarchal  fashion,  master  and  mistress,  chil- 
dren and  servants,  were  assembled  in  that 
glorious  kitchen,  at  well-graduated  distances 
from  the  blazing  fire.  And  for  the  last  two 
years,  at  least,  Hetty  had  been  in  the  habit  of 
hearing  her  uncle  say,   "Adam  Bede  may  be 


HETTY'S   WORLD  141 

working  for  wage  now,  but  he'll  be  a  master- 
man  some  day,  as  sure  as  I  sit  in  this  chair. 
Mester  Burge  is  in  the  right  on  't  to  want  him 
to  go  partners  and  marry  his  daughter,  if  it's 
true  what  they  say;  the  woman  as  marries  him 
'uU  have  a  good  take,  be  't  Lady  Day  or  Mich- 
aelmas," —  a  remark  which  Mrs.  Poyser  al- 
ways followed  up  with  her  cordial  assent, 
"Ah,"  she  would  say,  "it's  all  very  fine  having 
a  ready-made  rich  man,  but  may-happen  he'll 
be  a  ready-made  fool;  and  it's  no  use  filling 
your  pocket  full  o'  money  if  you've  got  a  hole 
in  the  corner.  It'll  do  you  no  good  to  sit  in  a 
spring-cart  o'  your  own,  if  you've  got  a  soft  to 
drive  you:  he'll  soon  turn  you  over  into  the 
ditch.  I  allays  said  I'd  never  marry  a  man  as 
had  got  no  brains;  for  where 's  the  use  of  a 
woman  having  brains  of  her  own  if  she's  tackled 
to  a  geek  as  everybody's  a-laughing  at.^  She 
might  as  well  dress  herself  fine  to  sit  back'ards 
on  a  donkey." 

These  expressions,  though  figurative,  suffi- 
ciently indicated  the  bent  of  Mrs.  Poyser's 
mind  with  regard  to  Adam;  and  though  she 
and  her  husband  might  have  viewed  the  sub- 
ject differently  if  Hetty  had  been  a  daughter  of 
their  own,  it  was  clear  that  they  would  have 
welcomed  the  match  with  Adam  for  a  penniless 
niece.  For  what  could  Hetty  have  been  but 
a  servant  elsewhere,  if  her  uncle  had  not  taken 
her  in  and  brought  her  up  as  a  domestic  help  to 
her  aunt,  whose  health  since  the  birth  of  Totty 
had  not  been  equal  to  more  positive  labour  than 
the  superintendence  of  servants  and  children? 
But  Hetty  had  never  given  Adam  any  steady 


142  ADAM   BEDE 

encouragement.  Even  in  the  moments  when 
she  was  most  thoroughly  conscious  of  his 
superiority  to  her  other  admirers,  she  had  never 
brought  herself  to  think  of  accepting  him.  She 
liked  to  feel  that  this  strong,  skilful,  keen- eyed 
man  was  in  her  power,  and  would  have  been 
indignant  if  he  had  shown  the  least  sign  of  slip- 
ping from  under  the  yoke  of  her  coquettish 
tyranny,  and  attaching  himself  to  the  gentle 
Mary  Burge,  who  would  have  been  grateful 
enough  for  the  most  trifling  notice  from  him. 
"Mary  Burge,  indeed!  such  a  sallow-faced 
girl:  if  she  put  on  a  bit  of  pink  ribbon,  she 
looked  as  yellow  as  a  crow- flower,  and  her  hair 
was  as  straight  as  a  hank  of  cotton."  And 
always  when  Adam  stayed  away  for  several 
weeks  from  the  Hall  Farm,  and  otherwise  made 
some  show  of  resistance  to  his  passion  as  a 
foolish  one,  Hetty  took  care  to  entice  him  back 
into  the  net  by  little  airs  of  meekness  and  timid- 
ity, as  if  she  were  in  trouble  at  his  neglect.  But 
as  to  marrying  Adam,  that  was  a  very  different 
affair!  There  was  nothing  in  the  world  to 
tempt  her  to  do  that.  Her  cheeks  never  grew 
a  shade  deeper  when  his  name  was  mentioned; 
she  felt  no  thrill  when  she  saw  him  passing 
along  the  causeway  by  the  window,  or  advanc- 
ing towards  her  unexpectedly  in  the  footpath 
across  the  meadow;  she  felt  nothing  when  his 
eyes  rested  on  her  but  the  cold  triumph  of  know- 
ing that  he  loved  her,  and  would  not  care  to  look 
at  Mary  Burge.  He  could  no  more  stir  in  her 
the  emotions  that  make  the  sweet  intoxication 
of  young  love,  than  the  mere  picture  of  a  sun 
can  stir  the  spring  sap  in  the  subtle  fibres  of  the 


HETTY'S   WORLD  143 

plant.  She  saw  him  as  he  was,  —  a  poor  man, 
with  old  parents  to  keep,  who  would  not  be  able 
for  a  long  while  to  come  to  give  her  even  such 
luxuries  as  she  shared  in  her  uncle's  house. 
And  Hetty's  dreams  were  all  of  luxuries,  —  to 
sit  in  a  carpeted  parlour,  and  always  wear  white 
stockings;  to  have  some  large  beautiful  ear- 
rings, such  as  were  all  the  fashion;  to  have  Not- 
tingham lace  around  the  top  of  her  gown,  and 
something  to  make  her  handkerchief  smell  nice, 
like  Miss  Lydia  Donnithorne's  when  she  drew 
it  out  at  church ;  and  not  to  be  obliged  to  get  up 
early  or  be  scolded  by  anybody.  She  thought, 
if  Adam  had  been  rich  and  could  have  given  her 
these  things,  she  loved  him  well  enough  to  marry 
him. 

But  for  the  last  few  weeks  a  new  influence 
had  come  over  Hetty,  —  vague,  atmospheric, 
shaping  itself  into  no  self-confessed  hopes  or 
prospects,  but  producing  a  pleasant  narcotic 
effect,  making  her  tread  the  ground  and  go 
about  her  work  in  a  sort  of  dream,  unconscious 
of  weight  or  effort,  and  showing  her  all  things 
through  a  soft,  liquid  veil,  as  if  she  were  living 
not  in  this  solid  world  of  brick  and  stone,  but 
in  a  beatified  world,  such  as  the  sun  lights  up 
for  us  in  the  waters.  Hetty  had  become  aware 
that  Mr.  Arthur  Donnithorne  would  take  a 
good  deal  of  trouble  for  the  chance  of  seeing 
her;  that  he  always  placed  himself  at  church 
so  as  to  have  the  fullest  view  of  her  both  sitting 
and  standing;  that  he  was  constantly  finding 
reasons  for  calling  at  the  Hall  Farm,  and  always 
would  contrive  to  say  something  for  the  sake 
of  making  her  speak  to  him  and  look  at  him. 


144  ADAIVl  BEDE 

The  poor  child  no  more  conceived  at  present 
the  idea  that  the  young  squire  could  ever  be  her 
lover,  than  a  baker's  pretty  daughter  in  the 
crowd,  whom  a  young  emperor  distinguishes 
by  an  imperial  but  admiring  smile,  conceives 
that  she  shall  be  made  empress.  But  the 
baker's  daughter  goes  home  and  dreams  of  the 
handsome  young  emperor,  and  perhaps  weighs 
the  flour  amiss  while  she  is  thinking  what  a 
heavenly  lot  it  must  be  to  have  him  for  a  hus- 
band: and  so  poor  Hetty  had  got  a  face  and 
a  presence  haunting  her  waking  and  sleeping 
dreams;  bright,  soft  glances  had  penetrated 
her,  and  suffused  her  life  with  a  strange,  happy 
langour.  The  eyes  that  shed  those  glances 
were  really  not  half  so  fine  as  Adam's,  w^hich 
sometimes  looked  at  her  with  a  sad,  beseeching 
tenderness ;  but  they  had  found  a  ready  medium 
in  Hetty's  little,  silly  imagination,  whereas 
Adam's  could  get  no  entrance  through  that 
atmosphere.  For  three  weeks,  at  least,  her 
inward  life  had  consisted  of  little  else  than  liv- 
ing through  in  memory  the  looks  and  words 
Arthur  had  directed  towards  her,  —  of  little 
else  than  recalling  the  sensations  wnth  which 
she  heard  his  voice  outside  the  house,  and  saw 
him  enter,  and  became  conscious  that  his  eyes 
w^ere  fixed  on  her,  and  then  became  conscious 
that  a  tall  figure,  looking  down  on  her  with  eyes 
that  seemed  to  touch  her,  was  coming  nearer 
in  clothes  of  beautiful  texture,  with  an  odour 
like  that  of  a  flower-garden  borne  on  the  even- 
ing breeze.  Foolish  thoughts!  But  all  this 
happened,  you  must  remember,  nearly  sixty 
years  ago,  and  Hetty  was  quite  uneducated,  — 


HETTY'S   WORLD  145 

a  simple  farmer's  girl,  to  whom  a  gentleman 
with  a  white  hand  was  dazzling  as  an  Olympian 
god.  Until  to-day,  she  had  never  looked 
farther  into  the  future  than  to  the  next  time 
Captain  Donnithorne  would  come  to  the  Farm, 
or  the  next  Sunday  when  she  should  see  him 
at  church;  but  now  she  thought,  perhaps  he 
would  try  to  meet  her  when  she  went  to  the 
Chase  to-morrow,  —  and  if  he  should  speak  to 
her,  and  walk  a  little  way,  when  nobody  was 
by!  That  had  never  happened  yet;  and  now 
her  imagination,  instead  of  retracing  the  past, 
was  busy  fashioning  what  would  happen  to- 
morrow, —  whereabout  in  the  Chase  she  should 
see  him  coming  towards  her,  how  she  should 
put  her  new  rose-coloured  ribbon  on,  which  he 
had  never  seen,  and  what  he  would  say  to  her 
to  make  her  return  his  glance,  —  a  glance  which 
she  would  be  living  through  in  her  memory, 
over  and  over  again,  all  the  rest  of  the  day. 

In  this  state  of  mind  how  could  Hetty  give 
any  feeling  to  Adam's  troubles,  or  think  much 
about  poor  old  Thias  being  drowned  ?  Young 
souls,  m  such  pleasant  delirium  as  hers,  are  as 
unsympathetic  as  butterflies  sipping  nectar; 
they  are  isolated  from  all  appeals  by  a  barrier 
of  dreams,  —  by  invisible  looks  and  impalpable 
arms. 

While  Hetty's  hands  were  busy  packing  up 
the  butter,  and  her  head  filled  with  these  pic- 
tures of  the  morrow,  Arthur  Donnithorne,  rid- 
ing by  Mr.  Irwine's  side  towards  the  valley  of 
the  Willow  Brook,  had  also  certain  indistinct 
anticipations,  running  as  an  undercurrent  in 
his  mind  while  he  was  listening  to  Mr.  Irwine's 

VOL.  I — 10 


146  ADAM   BEDE 

account  of  Dinah,  —  indistinct,  yet  strong 
enough  to  make  him  feel  rather  conscious 
when  Mr.  Irwine  suddenly  said,  — 

"What  fascinated  you  so  in  Mrs.  Poyser's 
dairy,  Arthur  ?  Have  you  become  an  amateur 
of  damp  quarries  and  skimming-dishes.^" 

Arthur  knew  the  Rector  too  well  to  suppose 
that  a  clever  invention  would  be  of  any  use;  so 
he  said,  with  his  accustomed  frankness,  — 

"No,  I  went  to  look  at  the  pretty  butter- 
maker,  Hetty  Sorrel.  She's  a  perfect  Hebe; 
and  if  I  were  an  artist,  I  would  paint  her.  It's 
amazing  what  pretty  girls  one  sees  among  the 
farmers'  daughters,  when  the  men  are  such 
clowns.  That  common  round  red  face  one  sees 
sometimes  in  the  men  —  all  cheek  and  no 
features,  like  Martin  Poyser's  —  comes  out  in 
the  women  of  the  family  as  the  most  charming 
phiz  imaginablcv" 

"Well,  I  have  no  objection  to  your  contem- 
plating Hetty  in  an  artistic  light,  but  I  must  not 
have  you  feeding  her  vanity,  and  filling  her  little 
noddle  with  the  notion  that  she 's  a  great  beauty, 
attractive  to  fine  gentlemen,  or  you  will  spoil 
her  for  a  poor  man's  wife,  —  honest  Craig's, 
for  example,  whom  I  have  seen  bestowing  soft 
glances  on  her.  The  little  puss  seems  already 
to  have  airs  enough  to  make  a  husband  as  miser- 
able as  it's  a  law  of  nature  for  a  quiet  man  to  be 
when  he  marries  a  beauty.  Apropos  of  marry- 
ing, I  hope  our  friend  Adam  will  get  settled,  now 
the  poor  old  man's  gone.  He  will  only  have  his 
mother  to  keep  in  future,  and  I've  a  notion  that 
there's  a  kindness  between  him  and  that  nice 
modest  girl,  Mary  Burge,  from  something  that 


HETTY'S   WORLD  147 

fell  from  old  Jonathan  one  day  when  I  was  talk- 
ing to  him.  But  when  I  mentioned  the  subject 
to  Adam  he  looked  uneasy,  and  turned  the  con- 
versation. I  suppose  the  love-making  does  n't 
run  smooth,  or  perhaps  Adam  hangs  back  till 
he's  in  a  better  position.  He  has  independ- 
ence of  spirit  enough  for  two  men,  —  rather  an 
excess  of  pride,  if  anything." 

"That  would  be  a  capital  match  for  Adam. 
He  would  slip  into  old  Burge's  shoes,  and  make 
a  fine  thing  of  that  building  business,  I'll  an- 
swer for  him.  I  should  like  to  see  him  well 
settled  in  this  parish;  he  would  be  ready  then 
to  act  as  my  grand-vizier  when  I  wanted  one. 
We  could  plan  no  end  of  repairs  and  improve- 
ments together.  I've  never  seen  the  girl, 
though,  I  think,  —  at  least  I've  never  looked 
at  her." 

"  Look  at  her  next  Sunday  at  church,  —  she 
sits  with  her  father  on  the  left  of  the  reading- 
desk  You  need  n't  look  quite  so  much  at 
Hetty  Sorrel  thq|i.  When  I've  made  up  my 
mind  that  I  can't  afford  to  buy  a  tempting  dog, 
I  take  no  'notice  of  him,  because  if  he  took  a 
strong  fancy  to  me  and  looked  lovingly  at  me, 
the  struggle  between  arithmetic  and  inclination 
might  become  unpleasantly  severe.  I  pique 
myself  on  my  wisdom  there,  Arthur,  and  as  an 
old  fellow  to  whom  wisdom  has  become  cheap, 
I  bestow  it  upon  you." 

"Thank  you.  It  may  stand  me  in  good  stead 
some  day,  though  I  don't  know  that  I  have  any 
present  use  for  it.  Bless  me!  how  the  brook 
has  overflowed !  Suppose  we  have  a  canter  now 
we're  at  the  bottom  of  the  hill." 


148  ADAM   BEDE 

That  is  the  great  advantage  of  dialogue  on 
horseback;  it  can  be  merged  any  minute  into  a 
trot  or  a  canter,  and  one  might  have  escaped 
from  Socrates  himself  in  the  saddle.  The  two 
friends  were  free  from  the  necessity  of  further 
conversation  till  they  pulled  up  in  the  lane 
behind  Adam's  cottage. 


CHAPTER  X 

DINAH    VISITS    LISBETH 


AT  five  o'clock  Lisbeth  came  downstairs 
with  a  large  key  in  her  hand:  it  was  the 
key  of  the  chamber  where  her  husband 
lay  dead.  Throughout  the  day,  except  in  her 
occasional  outbursts  of  wailing  grief,  she  had 
been  in  incessant  movement,  performing  the 
initial  duties  to  her  dead  with  the  awe  and  ex- 
actitude that  belongs  to  religious  rites.  She  had 
brought  out  her  little  store  of  bleached  linen, 
which  she  had  for  long  years  kept  in  reserve  for 
this  supreme  use.  It  seemed  but  yesterday,  — 
that  time,  so  many  midsummers  ago,  when  she 
had  told  Thias  where  this  linen  lay,  that  he 
might  be  sure  and  reach  it  out  for  her  when  she 
died,  for  she  was  the  elder  of  the  two.  Then 
there  had  been  the  work  of  cleansing  to  the 
strictest  purity  every  object  in  the  sacred 
chamber,  and  of  removing  from  it  every  trace 
of  common  daily  occupation.  The  small  win- 
dow which  had  hitherto  freely  let  in  the  frosty 
moonlight  or  the  warm  summer  sunrise  on  the 
working  man's  slumber,  must  now  be  darkened 
with  a  fair  white  sheet,  for  this  was  the  sleep 
which  is  as  sacred  under  the  bare  rafters  as  in 
ceiled  houses.  Lisbeth  had  even  mended  a 
long- neglected  and  unnoticeable  rent  in  the 
checkered  bit  of  bed-curtain;  for  the  moments 
were  few  and  precious  now  in  which  she  would 


150  ADAM   BEDE 

he  able  to  do  the  smallest  office  of  respect  or 
love  for  the  still  corpse,  to  which  in  all  her 
thoughts  she  attributed  some  consciousness. 
Our  dead  are  never  dead  to  us  until  we  have  for- 
gotten them :  they  can  be  injured  by  us,  they  can 
be  wounded;  they  know  all  our  penitence,  all 
our  aching  sense  that  their  place  is  empty,  all 
the  kisses  we  bestow  on  the  smallest  relic  of 
their  presence.  And  the  aged  peasant-woman 
most  of  all  believes  that  her  dead  are  conscious. 
Decent  burial  was  what  Lisbeth  had  been  think- 
ing of  for  herself  through  years  of  thrift,  with 
an  indistinct  expectation  that  she  should  know 
when  she  was  being  carried  to  the  churchyard, 
followed  by  her  husband  and  her  sons ;  and  now 
she  felt  as  if  the  greatest  work  of  her  life  were 
to  be  done  in  seeing  that  Thias  was  buried  de- 
cently before  her,  —  under  the  white  thorn, 
where  once,  in  a  dream,  she  had  thought  she  lay 
in  the  coffin,  yet  all  the  while  saw  the  sunshine 
above,  and  smelt  the  white  blossoms  that  were 
so  thick  upon  the  thorn  the  Sunday  she  went  to 
be  churched  after  Adam  was  born. 

But  now  she  had  done  everything  that  could 
be  done  to-day  in  the  chamber  of  death,  —  had 
done  it  all  herself,  with  some  aid  from  her  sons 
in  lifting,  for  she  would  let  no  one  be  fetched  to 
help  her  from  the  village,  not  being  fond  of 
female  neighbours  generally;  and  her  favourite 
Dolly,  the  old  housekeeper  at  Mr.  Burge's,  who 
had  come  to  condole  with  her  in  the  morning  as 
soon  as  she  heard  of  Thias's  death,  was  too  dim- 
sighted  to  be  of  much  use.  She  had  locked  the 
door,  and  now  held  the  key  in  her  hand,  as  she 
threw  herself  wearily  into  a  chair  that  stood  out 


DINAH  VISITS   LISBETH         151 

of  its  place  in  the  middle  of  the  house-floor, 
where  in  ordinary  times  she  would  never  have 
consented  to  sit.  The  kitchen  had  had  none  of 
her  attention  that  day;  it  was  soiled  with  the 
tread  of  muddy  shoes,  and  untidy  with  clothes 
and  other  objects  out  of  place.  But  what  at 
another  time  would  have  been  intolerable  to 
Lisbeth's  habits  of  order  and  cleanliness  seemed 
to  her  now  just  what  should  be:  it  was  right 
that  things  should  look  strange  and  disordered 
and  wretched,  now  the  old  man  had  come  to  his 
end  in  that  sad  way;  the  kitchen  ought  not  to 
look  as  if  nothing  had  happened.  Adam,  over- 
come with  the  agitations  and  exertions  of  the 
day  after  his  night  of  hard  work,  had  fallen 
asleep  on  a  bench  in  the  workshop;  and  Seth 
was  in  the  back- kitchen  making  a  fire  of  sticks, 
that  he  might  get  the  kettle  to  boil,  and  per- 
suade his  mother  to  have  a  cup  of  tea,  —  an  in- 
dulgence which  she  rarely  allowed  herself. 

There  was  no  one  in  the  kitchen  when  Lis- 
beth  entered  and  threw  herself  into  the  chair. 
She  looked  round  with  blank  eyes  at  the  dirt  and 
confusion  on  which  the  bright  afternoon's  sun 
shone  dismally ;  it  was  all  of  a  piece  with  the  sad 
confusion  of  her  mind,  —  that  confusion  which 
belongs  to  the  first  hours  of  a  sudden  sorrow, 
when  the  poor  human  soul  is  like  one  who  has 
been  deposited  sleeping  among  the  ruins  of  a 
vast  city,  and  wakes  up  in  dreary  amazement, 
not  knowing  whether  it  is  the  growing  or  the 
dying  day,  —  not  knowing  why  and  whence 
came  this  illimitable  scene  of  desolation, 
or  why  he  too  finds  himself  desolate  in  the 
midst  of  it. 


152  ADAM   BEDE 

At  another  time  Lisbeth's  first  thought  would 
have  been,  "Where  is  Adam?"  but  the  sud- 
den death  of  her  husband  had  restored  him  in 
these  hours  to  that  first  place  in  her  affections 
which  he  had  held  six- and- twenty  years  ago: 
she  had  forgotten  his  faults  as  we  forget  the  sor- 
rows of  our  departed  childhood,  and  thought 
of  nothing  but  the  young  husband's  kindness 
and  the  old  man's  patience.  Her  eyes  con- 
tinued to  wander  blankly,  until  Seth  came  in 
and  began  to  remove  some  of  the  scattered 
things,  and  clear  the  small  round  deal  table, 
that  he  might  set  out  his  mother's  tea  upon  it. 

"What  art  goin'  to  do.'^"  she  said  rather 
peevishly. 

"I  want  thee  to  have  a  cup  of  tea,  mother," 
answered  Seth,  tenderly.  "It'll  do  thee  good; 
and  I'll  put  two  or  three  of  these  things  away, 
and  make  the  house  look  more  comfortable." 

"Comfortable!  How  canst  talk  o'  ma'in' 
things  comfortable .''  Let  a-be,  let  a-be. 
There's  no  comfort  for  me  no  more,"  she  went 
on,  the  tears  coming  when  she  began  to  speak, 
"now  thy  poor  feyther  's  gone,  as  I'n  washed  for 
and  mended,  an'  got's  victual  for  him  for  thirty 
'ear,  an'  him  allays  so  pleased  wi'  iverything  I 
done  for  him,  an'  used  to  be  so  handy  an'  do  the 
jobs  for  me  when  I  war  ill  an'  cumbered  wi'  th' 
babby,  an'  made  me  the  posset  an'  brought  it 
upstairs  as  proud  as  could  be,  an'  carried  the 
lad  as  war  as  heavy  as  two  children  for  five  mile 
an'  ne'er  grumbled,  all  the  way  to  Warson  Wake, 
'cause  I  wanted  to  go  an'  see  my  sister,  as  war 
dead  an'  gone  the  very  next  Christmas  as  e'er 
come.     An'  him  to  be  drownded  in  the  brook 


DINAH   VISITS   LISBETH         153 

as  we  passed  o'er  the  day  we  war  married  an' 
come  home  together,  an'  he'd  made  them  lots  o' 
shelves  for  me  to  put  my  plates  an'  things  on, 
an'  showed  'em  me  as  proud  as  could  be,  'cause 
he  know'd  I  should  be  pleased.  An'  he  war  to 
die  an'  me  not  to  know,  but  to  be  a-sleepin'  i' 
my  bed,  as  if  I  caredna  nought  about  it.  Eh! 
an'  me  to  live  to  see  that!  An'  us  as  war  young 
folks  once,  an'  thought  we  should  do  rarely 
when  we  war  married.  Let  a-be,  lad,  let  a-be! 
I  wonna  ha'  no  tay;  I  carena  if  I  ne'er  ate  nor 
drink  no  more.  When  one  end  o'  th'  bridge 
tumbles  down,  where 's  th'  use  o'  th'  other  stan- 
nin'  ?  I  may's  well  die,  an'  foller  my  old  man. 
There's  no  knowin'  but  he'll  want  me." 

Here  Lisbeth  broke  from  words  into  moans, 
swaying  herself  backwards  and  forwards  on  her 
chair.  Seth,  always  timid  in  his  behaviour 
towards  his  mother,  from  the  sense  that  he  had 
no  influence  over  her,  felt  it  was  useless  to  at- 
tempt to  persuade  or  soothe  her,  till  this  pas- 
sion was  past;  so  he  contented  himself  with 
tending  the  back- kitchen  fire,  and  folding  up 
his  father's  clothes,  which  had  been  hanging;  out 
to  dry  since  morning;  afraid  to  move  about  in 
the  rooin  where  his  mother  was,  lest  he  should 
irritate  her  further. 

But  after  Lisbeth  had  been  rocking  herself 
and  moaning  for  some  minutes,  she  suddenly 
paused,  and  said  aloud  to  herself,  — 

"  I'll  go  an'  see  arter  Adam,  for  I  canna  think 
where  he's  gotten;  an'  I  want  him  to  go 
upstairs  wi'  me  afore  it's  dark,  for  the  min- 
utes to  look  at  the  corpse  is  like  the  meltin' 
snow." 


154  ADAM  BEDE 

Seth  overheard  this,  and  coming  into  the 
kitchen  again,  as  his  mother  rose  from  her 
chair,  he  said,  — 

"Adam's  asleep  in  the  workshop,  mother. 
Thee'dst  better  not  wake  him.  He  was  o'er- 
wrought  with  work  and  trouble." 

"Wake  him  .'^  Who's  a-goin'  to  wake  him  .^ 
I  shanna  wake  him  wi'  lookin'  at  him.  I  banna 
seen  the  lad  this  two  hour,  —  I'd  welly  forgot 
as  he'd  e'er  growed  up  from  a  babby  when's 
feyther  carried  him," 

Adam  was  seated  on  a  rough  bench,  his  head 
supported  by  his  arm,  which  rested  from  the 
shoulder  to  the  elbow  on  the  long  planing- table 
in  the  middle  of  the  workshop.  It  seemed  as  if 
he  had  sat  down  for  a  few  minutes'  rest,  and  had 
fallen  asleep  without  slipping  from  his  first  atti- 
tude of  sad,  fatigued  thought.  His  face,  un- 
washed since  yesterday,  looked  pallid  and 
clammy;  his  hair  was  tossed  shaggily  about  his 
forehead,  and  his  closed  eyes  had  the  sunken 
look  which  follows  upon  watching  and  sorrow. 
His  brow  was  knit,  and  his  whole  face  had  an 
expression  of  weariness  and  pain.  Gyp  was 
evidently  uneasy,  for  he  sat  on  his  haunches, 
resting  his  nose  on  his  master's  stretched-out 
leg,  and  dividing  the  time  between  licking  the 
hand  that  hung  listlessly  down,  and  glancing 
with  a  listening  air  towards  the  door.  The  poor 
dog  w^as  hungry  and  restless,  but  would  not 
leave  his  master,  and  was  waiting  impatiently 
for  some  change  in  the  scene.  It  was  owing  to 
this  feeling  on  Gyp's  part,  that  when  Lisbeth 
came  into  the  workshop,  and  advanced  towards 
Adam  as  noiselessly  us  she  could,  her  intention 


DINAH   VISITS   LISBETH         155 

not  to  awake  him  was  immediately  defeated; 
for  Gyp's  excitement  was  too  great  to  find  vent 
in  anything  short  of  a  sharp  bark,  and  in  a  mo- 
ment Adam  opened  his  eyes  and  saw  his  mother 
standing  before  him.     It  was  not  very  unHke 
his  dream,  for  his  sleep  had  been  little  more 
than  living  through  again,  in  a  fevered,  delirious 
way,  all  that  had  happened  since  daybreak,  and 
his  mother  with  her  fretful  grief  was  present  to 
him  through  it  all.     The  chief  difference  be- 
tween the  reality  and  the  vision  was  that  in  his 
dream  Hetty  was  continually  coming  before  him 
in  bodily  presence,  —  strangely  mingling  her- 
self as  an  actor  in  scenes  with  which  she  had 
nothing  to  do.     She  was  even  by  the  ^Yillow 
Brook;    she  made  his  mother  angry  by  coming 
into  the  house;   and  he  met  her  with  her  smart 
clothes  quite  wet  through,  as  he  walked  in  the 
rain   to  Treddleston,  to  tell  the  coroner.     But 
wherever  Hetty  came,  his  mother  was  sure  to 
follow  soon;    and  when  he  opened  his  eyes,  it 
was  not  at  all  startling  to  see  her  standing  near 
him. 

"Eh,  my  lad,  my  lad!"  Lisbeth  burst  out 
immediately,  her  wailing  impulse  returning,  for 
grief  in  its  freshness  feels  the  need  of  associat- 
ing its  loss  and  its  lament  with  every  change  of 
scene  and  incident,  "thee'st  got  nobody  now 
but  thy  old  mother  to  torment  thee  and  be  a 
burden  to  thee:  thy  poor  feyther  'ull  ne'er  anger 
thee  no  more;  an'  thy  mother  may's  well  go 
arter  him,  —  the  sooner  the  better, — for  I'm 
no  good  to  nobody  now.  One  old  coat  'ull  do 
to  patch  another,  but  it's  good  for  nought  else. 
Thee  'dst  like  to  ha'  a  wife  to  mend  thy  clothes 


156  ADAM   BEDE 

an'  get  thy  victual,  better  nor  thy  old  mother. 
An'  I  shall  be  nought  but  cumber,  a-sittin'  i'  th' 
chimney-corner."  (Adam  winced  and  moved 
uneasily;  he  dreaded,  of  all  things,  to  hear  his 
mother  speak  of  Hetty.)  "But  if  thy  feyther 
had  lived,  he'd  ne'er  ha'  wanted  me  to  go  to 
make  room  for  another,  for  he  could  no  more 
ha'  done  wi'out  me  nor  one  side  o'  the  scissars 
can  do  wi'out  th'  other.  Eh,  we  should  ha' 
been  both  flung  away  together,  an'  then  I 
shouldna  ha'  seen  this  day,  an'  one  buryin' 
'ud  ha'  done  for  us  both." 

Here  Lisbeth  paused,  but  Adam  sat  in  pained 
silence:  he  could  not  speak  otherwise  than 
tenderly  to  his  mother  to-day;  but  he  could 
not  help  being  irritated  by  this  plaint.  It  was 
not  possible  for  poor  Lisbeth  to  know  how  it 
affected  Adam,  any  more  than  it  is  possible  for 
a  wounded  dog  to  know  how  his  moans  affect 
the  nerves  of  his  master.  Like  all  complaining 
women,  she  complained  in  the  expectation  of 
being  soothed;  and  when  Adam  said  nothing, 
she  was  only  prompted  to  complain  more 
bitterly. 

"I  know  thee  couldst  do  better  wi'out  me,  for 
thee  couldst  go  where  thee  likedst,  an'  marry 
them  as  thee  likedst.  But  I  donna  want  to  say 
thee  nay,  let  thee  bring  home  who  thee  wut; 
I'd  ne'er  open  my  lips  to  find  faut,  for  when 
folks  is  old  an'  o'  no  use,  they  may  think  their- 
sens  well  off  to  get  the  bit  an'  the  sup,  though 
they'n  to  swallow  ill  words  wi'  't.  iVn'  if 
thee'st  set  thy  heart  on  a  lass  as  '11  bring  thee 
nought  and  waste  all,  when  thee  mightst  ha' 
them  as  'ud  make  a  man  on  thee,  I'll  say  nought, 


DINAH   VISITS  LISBETH         157 

now  thy  feyther's  dead  an'  drownded,  for  I'm  no 
better  nor  an  old  haft  when  the  blade's  gone." 

Adam,  unable  to  bear  this  any  longer,  rose 
silently  from  the  bench,  and  walked  out  of  the 
workshop  into  the  kitchen.  But  Lisbeth  fol- 
lowed him. 

"Thee  wutna  go  upstairs  an'  see  thy  feyther 
then  .'^  I'n  done  everythin'  now,  an'  he'd  like 
thee  to  go  an'  look  at  him,  for  he  war  allays  so 
pleased  when  thee  wast  mild  to  him." 

Adam  turned  round  at  once  and  said,  "Yes, 
mother,  let  us  go  upstairs.  Come,  Seth,  let  us 
go  together." 

They  went  upstairs,  and  for  five  minutes  all 
was  silence.  Then  the  key  was  turned  again, 
and  there  was  a  sound  of  footsteps  on  the  stairs. 
But  Adam  did  not  come  down  again;  he  was 
too  weary  and  worn  out  to  encounter  more  of 
his  mother's  querulous  grief,  and  he  went  to 
rest  on  his  bed.  Lisbeth  no  sooner  entered  the 
kitchen  and  sat  down  than  she  threw  her  apron 
over  her  head,  and  began  to  cry  and  moan,  and 
rock  herself  as  before.  Seth  thought,  "  She  will 
be  quieter  by  and  by,  now  we  have  been  up- 
stairs;" and  he  went  into  the  back-kitchen 
again,  to  tend  his  little  fire,  hoping  that  he 
should  presently  induce  her  to  have  some 
tea. 

Lisbeth  had  been  rocking  herself  in  this  way 
for  more  than  five  minutes,  giving  a  low  moan 
with  every  forward  movement  of  her  body, 
when  she  suddenly  felt  a  hand  placed  gently 
on  hers,  and  a  sweet  treble  voice  said  to  her, 
"Dear  sister,  the  Lord  has  sent  me  to  see  if  I 
can  be  a  comfort  to  you." 


158  ADAM   BEDE 

Lisbeth  paused,  in  a  listening  attitude,  with- 
out removing  her  apron  from  her  face.  The 
voice  was  strange  to  her.  Could  it  be  her  sister's 
spirit  come  back  to  her  from  the  dead  after  all 
those  years  ?  She  trembled,  and  dared  not 
look. 

Dinah,  believing  that  this  pause  of  wonder 
was  in  itself  a  relief  for  the  sorrowing;  woman, 
said  no  more  just  yet,  but  quietly  took  off  her 
bonnet,  and  then,  motioning  silence  to  Seth, 
who,  on  hearing  her  voice,  had  come  in  with  a 
beating  heart,  laid  one  hand  on  the  back  of  Lis- 
beth's  chair,  and  leaned  over  her,  that  she  might 
be  aware  of  a  friendly  presence. 

Slowly  Lisbeth  drew  down  her  apron,  and 
timidly  she  opened  her  dim  dark  eyes.  She  saw 
nothing  at  first  but  a  face,  —  a  pure,  pale  face, 
with  loving  gray  eyes,  and  it  was  quite  unknown 
to  her.  Her  wonder  increased;  perhaps  it  was 
an  angel.  But  in  the  same  instant  Dinah  had 
laid  her  hand  on  Lisbeth's  again,  and  the  old 
woman  looked  down  at  it.  It  was  a  much 
smaller  hand  than  her  own,  but  it  was  not  white 
and  delicate,  for  Dinah  had  never  worn  a  glove 
in  her  life,  and  her  hand  bore  the  traces  of 
labour  from  her  childhood  upwards.  Lisbeth 
looked  earnestly  at  the  hand  for  a  moment,  and 
then,  fixing  her  eyes  again  on  Dinah's  face, 
said,  with  something  of  restored  courage,  but 
in  a  tone  of  surprise,  — 

"Why,  ye 're  a  workin'  woman!" 

"Yes,  I  am  Dinah  Morris,  and  I  work  in  the 
cotton-mill  when  I  am  at  home." 

"Ah!"  said  Lisbeth,  slowly,  still  wondering; 
"ye  comed  in  so  light,  like  the  shadow  on  the 


DINAH   VISITS   LISBETH         159 

wall,  an'  spoke  i'  my  ear,  as  I  thought  ye  might 
be  a  sperrit.  Ye've  got  a'most  the  face  o'  one  as 
is  a-sittin'  on  the  grave  i'  Adam's  new  Bible." 

"I  come  from  the  Hall  Farm  now.  You 
know  Mrs.  Poyser,  — she's  my  aunt,  and  she 
has  heard  of  your  great  affliction,  and  is  very 
sorry;  and  I'm  come  to  see  if  I  can  be  any 
help  to  you  in  your  trouble;  for  I  know  your 
sons  Adam  and  Seth,  and  I  know  you  have  no 
daughter ;  and  when  the  clergyman  told  me  how 
the  hand  of  God  was  heavy  upon  you,  my  heart 
went  out  towards  you,  and  I  felt  a  command  to 
come  and  be  to  you  in  the  place  of  a  daughter 
in  this  grief,  if  you  will  let  me." 

"Ah!  I  know  who  y'  are  now;  y'  are  a 
Methody,  like  Seth;  he's  tould  me  on  you," 
said  Lisbeth,  fretfully,  her  overpowering  sense 
of  pain  returning,  now  her  wonder  was  gone. 
"Ye'll  make  it  out  as  trouble's  a  good  thing, 
like  he  allays  does.  But  where 's  the  use  o' 
talkin'  to  me  a-that'n.'^  Ye  canna  make  the 
smart  less  wi'  talkin'.  Ye '11  ne'er  make  me  be- 
lieve as  it's  better  for  me  not  to  ha'  my  old  man 
die  in's  bed,  if  he  must  die,  an'  ha'  the  parson 
to  pray  by  him,  an'  me  to  sit  by  him,  an'  tell 
him  ne'er  to  mind  th'  ill  words  I've  gi'en  him 
sometimes  when  I  war  angered,  an'  to  gi'  him  a 
bit  an'  a  sup,  as  long  as  a  bit  an'  a  sup  he'd 
swallow.  But  eh!  to  die  i'  the  cold  water  an' 
us  close  to  him,  an'  ne'er  o  know;  an'  me 
a-sleepin',  as  if  I  ne'er  belonged  to  him  no 
more  nor  if  he'd  been  a  journeyman  tramp 
from  nobody  knows  where!" 

Here  Lisbeth  began  to  cry  and  rock  herself 
again ;    and  Dinah  said,  — 


160  ADAM   BEDE 

"Yes,  dear  friend,  your  affliction  is  great.  It 
would  be  hardness  of  heart  to  say  that  your 
trouble  was  not  heavy  to  bear.  God  did  n't 
send  me  to  you  to  make  light  of  your  sorrow, 
but  to  mourn  with  you,  if  you  will  let  me.  If 
you  had  a  table  spread  for  a  feast,  and  was  mak- 
ing merry  with  your  friends,  you  would  think 
it  was  kind  to  let  me  come  and  sit  down  and 
rejoice  with  you,  because  you'd  think  I  should 
like  to  share  those  good  things;  but  I  should 
like  better  to  share  in  your  trouble  and  your 
labour,  and  it  would  seem  harder  to  me  if  you 
denied  me  that.  You  won't  send  me  away  ? 
You're  not  angry  with  me  for  coming.^" 

"Nay,  nay;  angered!  who  said  I  war  an- 
gered ?  It  war  good  on  you  to  come.  An', 
Seth,  why  donna  ye  get  her  some  tay  ?  Ye  war 
in  a  hurry  to  get  some  for  me,  as  had  no  need, 
but  ye  donna  think  o'  gettin'  't  for  them  as  wants 
it.  Sit  ye  down;  sit  ye  down.  I  thank  you 
kindly  for  comin',  for  it's  little  wage  ye  get  by 
walkin'  through  the  wet  fields  to  see  an  old 
woman  like  me.  .  .  .  Nay,  I'n  got  no  daughter 
o'  my  own,  —  ne'er  had  one,  —  an'  I  warna 
sorry,  for  they're  poor  queechy  things,  gells  is; 
I  allays  wanted  to  ha'  lads,  as  could  fend  for 
theirsens.  An'  the  lads  'ull  be  marryin',  —  I 
shall  ha'  daughters  eno',  an'  too  many.  But 
now,  do  ye  make  the  tay  as  ye  like  it,  for  I'n  got 
no  taste  i'  my  mouth  this  day,  —  it's  all  one 
what  I  swaller,  —  it's  all  got  the  taste  o'  sorrow 

Wl      t. 

Dinah  took  care  not  to  betray  that  she  had 
had  her  tea,  and  accepted  Lisbeth's  invitation 
very  readily,  for  the  sake  of  persuading  the  old 


DINAH   VISITS   LISBETH         161 

woman  herself  to  take  the  food  and  drink  she  so 
much  needed  after  a  day  of  hard  work  and  fasting. 

Seth  was  so  happy  now  Dinah  was  in  the 
house  that  he  could  not  help  thinking  her  pres- 
ence was  worth  purchasing  with  a  life  in  which 
grief  incessantly  followed  upon  grief;  but  the 
next  moment  he  reproached  himself,  —  it  was 
almost  as  if  he  were  rejoicing  in  his  father's 
sad  death.  Nevertheless  the  joy  of  being  with 
Dinah  would  triumph,  —  it  was  like  the  in- 
fluence of  climate,  which  no  resistance  can  over- 
come; and  the  feeling  even  suffused  itself  over 
his  face  so  as  to  attract  his  mother's  notice  while 
she  was  drinking  her  tea. 

"Thee  may'st  well  talk  o'  trouble  bein'  a 
good  thing,  Seth,  for  thee  thriv'st  on  't.  Thee 
look'st  as  if  thee  know'dst  no  more  o'  care  an' 
cumber  nor  when  thee  wast  a  babby  a-lyin' 
awake  i'  th'  cradle.  For  thee  'dst  allays  lie  still 
wi'  thy  eyes  open,  an'  Adam  ne'er  'ud  lie  still  a 
minute  when  he  wakened.  Thee  wast  allays 
like  a  bag  o'  meal  as  can  ne'er  be  bruised,  — 
though,  for  the  matter  o'  that,  thy  poor  feyther 
war  just  such  another.  But  ?/e've  got  the  same 
look  too"  (here  Lisbeth  turned  to  Dinah).  "I 
reckon  it's  wi'  bein'  a  Methody.  Not  as  I'm 
a-findin'  faut  wi'  ye  for  't,  for  ye've  no  call  to  be 
frettin',  an'  somehow  ye  looken  sorry  too.  Eh! 
well,  if  the  Methodies  are  fond  o'  trouble,  they're 
like  to  thrive;  it's  a  pity  they  canna  ha'  't  all, 
an'  take  it  away  from  them  as  donna  like  it.  I 
could  ha'  gi'en  'em  plenty;  for  when  I'd  gotten 
my  old  man,  I  war  worreted  from  morn  till 
night;  and  now  he's  gone,  I'd  be  glad  for  the 
worst  o'er  again." 

VOL.  I  —11 


162  ADAM   BEDE 

"  Yes,"  said  Dinah,  careful  not  to  oppose  any 
feeling  of  Lisbeth's;  for  her  reliance,  in  her 
smallest  words  and  deeds,  on  a  divine  guidance 
always  issued  in  that  finest  woman's  tact  which 
proceeds  from  acute  and  ready  sympathy,  — 
"yes;  I  remember,  too,  when  my  dear  aunt 
died,  I  longed  for  the  sound  of  her  bad  cough 
in  the  nights,  instead  of  the  silence  that  came 
when  she  was  gone.  But  now,  dear  friend, 
drink  this  other  cup  of  tea  and  eat  a  little 
more." 

"What!"  said  Lisbeth,  taking  the  cup,  and 
speaking  in  a  less  querulous  tone,  "had  ye  got 
no  feyther  and  mother,  then,  as  ye  war  so  sorry 
about  your  aunt.^" 

"No,  I  never  knew  a  father  or  mother;  my 
aunt  brought  me  up  from  a  baby.  She  had  no 
children,  for  she  was  never  married,  and  she 
brought  me  up  as  tenderly  as  if  I'd  been  her 
own  child." 

"Eh,  she'd  fine  work  wi'  ye,  I'll  warrant, 
bringin'  ye  up  from  a  babby,  an'  her  a  lone 
woman,  —  it's  ill  bringin'  up  a  cade  lamb. 
But  I  dare  say  ye  warna  franzy,  for  ye  look  as 
if  ye'd  ne'er  been  angered  i'  your  life.  But 
what  did  ye  do  when  your  aunt  died,  an'  why 
didna  ye  come  to  live  in  this  country,  bein'  as 
Mrs.  Poyser 's  your  aunt  too.?" 

Dinah,  seeing  that  Lisbeth's  attention  was 
attracted,  told  her  the  story  of  her  early  life,  — 
how  she  had  been  brought  up  to  work  hard, 
and  what  sort  of  place  Snowfield  was,  and  how 
many  people  had  a  hard  life  there,  —  all  the 
details  that  she  thought  likely  to  interest  Lis- 
beth.    The  old  woman  listened,  and  forgot  to 


DINAH  VISITS  LISBETH         163 

be  fretful,  unconsciously  subject  to  the  sooth- 
ing influence  of  Dinah's  face  and  voice.  After 
a  while  she  was  persuaded  to  let  the  kitchen  be 
made  tidy;  for  Dinah  was  bent  on  this,  believ- 
ing that  the  sense  of  order  and  quietude  around 
her  would  help  in  disposing  Lisbeth  to  join  in 
the  prayer  she  longed  to  pour  forth  at  her  side. 
Seth,  meanwhile,  went  out  to  chop  wood;  for 
he  surmised  that  Dinah  would  like  to  be  left 
alone  with  his  mother. 

Lisbeth  sat  watching  her  as  she  moved  about 
in  her  still,  quick  way,  and  said  at  last:  "  Ye've 
got  a  notion  o'  cleanin'  up.  I  wouldna  mind 
ha'in'  ye  for  a  daughter,  for  ye  wouldna  spend 
the  lad's  wage  i'  fine  clothes  an'  waste.  Ye 're 
not  like  the  lasses  o'  this  country-side.  I  reckon 
folks  is  different  at  Snowfield  from  what  they 
are  here." 

"They  have  a  different  sort  of  life,  many  of 
'em,"  said  Dinah;  "they  work  at  different 
things,  —  some  in  the  mill,  and  many  in  the 
mines,  in  the  villages  round  about.  But  the 
heart  of  man  is  the  same  everywhere,  and  there 
are  the  children  of  this  world  and  the  children 
of  light  there  as  well  as  elsewhere.  But  we've 
many  more  Methodists  there  than  in  this 
country." 

"  Well,  I  didna  know  as  the  Methody  women 
war  like  ye,  for  there's  Will  Maskery's  wife,  as 
they  say's  a  big  Methody,  isna  pleasant  to  look 
at  at  all.  I'd  as  lief  look  at  a  tooad.  An'  I'm 
thinkin'  I  wouldna  mind  if  ye'd  stay  an'  sleep 
here,  for  I  should  like  to  see  ye  i'  th'  house  i' 
th'  mornin'.  But  may-happen  they'll  be  look- 
in'  for  ye  at  Mester  Poyser's." 


164  ADAM   BEDE 

"No,"  said  Dinah,  "they  don't  expect  me, 
and  I  should  like  to  stay,  if  you'll  let  me," 

"Well,  there's  room;  I'n  got  my  bed  laid  i* 
th'  little  room  o'er  the  back- kitchen,  an'  ye  can 
lie  beside  me.  I'd  be  glad  to  ha'  ye  wi'  me  to 
speak  to  i'  th'  night,  for  ye've  got  a  nice  way  o' 
talkin'.  It  puts  me  i'  mind  o'  the  swallows  as 
was  under  the  thack  last  'ear,  when  they  fust 
begun  to  sing  low  an'  softlike  i'  th'  mornin'. 
Eh,  but  my  old  man  war  fond  o'  them  birds! 
an'  so  war  Adam,  but  they  'n  ne'er  comed  again 
this  'ear.     Happen  they're  dead  too." 

"There,"  said  Dinah,  "now  the  kitchen  looks 
tidy,  and  now,  dear  mother,  —  for  I'm  your 
daughter  to-night,  you  know,  —  I  should  like 
you  to  wash  your  face  and  have  a  clean  cap  on. 
Do  you  remember  what  David  did,  when  God 
took  away  his  child  from  him  ?  While  the 
child  was  yet  alive  he  fasted  and  prayed  to  God 
to  spare  it,  and  he  would  neither  eat  nor  drink, 
but  lay  on  the  ground  all  night,  beseeching 
God  for  the  child.  But  when  he  knew^  it  was 
dead,  he  rose  up  from  the  ground  and  washed 
and  anointed  himself,  and  changed  his  clothes, 
and  ate  and  drank;  and  when  they  asked  him 
how  it  was  that  he  seemed  to  have  left  off  griev- 
ing now  the  child  was  dead,  he  said,  'While  the 
child  was  yet  alive,  I  fasted  and  wept;  for  I 
said.  Who  can  tell  whether  God  will  be  gracious 
to  me,  that  the  child  may  live  ?  But  now^  he  is 
dead,  wherefore  should  I  fast  ?  can  I  bring  him 
back  again  ?  I  shall  go  to  him,  but  he  shall  not 
return  to  me.' " 

"Eh,  that's  a  true  word,"  said  Lisbeth. 
"  Yea,  my  old  man  wonna  come  back  to  me,  but 


DINAH  VISITS   LISBETH         165 

I  shall  go  to  him,  —  the  sooner  the  better.  Well 
ye  may  do  as  ye  like  wi'  me:  there's  a  clean  cap 
i'  that  drawer,  an'  I'll  go  i'  the  back- kitchen  an' 
wash  my  face.  An'  Seth,  thee  may'st  reach 
down  Adam's  new  Bible  wi'  th'  picters  in,  an' 
she  shall  read  us  a  chapter.  Eh,  I  like  them 
words,  —  'I  shall  go  to  him,  but  he  wonna  come 
back  to  me.'  " 

Dinah  and  Seth  were  both  inwardly  offering 
thanks  for  the  greater  quietness  of  spirit  that 
had  come  over  Lisbeth.  This  was  what  Dinah 
had  been  trying  to  bring  about,  through  all  her 
still  sympathy  and  absence  from  exhortation. 
From  her  girlhood  upwards  she  had  had  ex- 
perience among  the  sick  and  the  mourning, 
among  minds  hardened  and  shrivelled  through 
poverty  and  ignorance,  and  had  gained  the 
subtlest  perception  of  the  mode  in  which  they 
could  best  be  touched,  and  softened  into  will- 
ingness to  receive  words  of  spiritual  consola- 
tion or  warning.  As  Dinah  expressed  it,  "she 
was  never  left  to  herself;  but  it  was  always 
given  her  when  to  keep  silence  and  when  to 
speak."  And  do  we  not  all  agree  to  call  rapid 
thought  and  noble  impulse  by  the  name  of  in- 
spiration ?  After  our  subtlest  analysis  of  the 
mental  process,  we  must  still  say,  as  Dinah  did, 
that  our  highest  thoughts  and  our  best  deeds  are 
all  given  to  us. 

And  so  there  was  earnest  prayer,  —  there  was 
faith,  love,  and  hope  pouring  itself  forth  that 
evening  in  the  little  kitchen.  And  poor  aged, 
fretful  Lisbeth,  without  grasping  any  distinct 
idea,  without  going  through  any  course  of  re- 
ligious emotions,  felt  a  vague  sense  of  goodness 


166  ADAM  BEDE 

and  love,  and  of  something  right  lying  under- 
neath and  beyond  all  this  sorrowing  life.  She 
could  n't  understand  the  sorrow;  but  for  these 
moments,  under  the  subduing  influence  of 
Dinah's  spirit,  she  felt  that  she  must  be  patient 
and  still. 


CHAPTER   XI 

IN     THE     COTTAGE 


IT  was  but  half- past  four  the  next  morning, 
when  Dinah,  tired  of  lying  awake  listen- 
ing to  the  birds,  and  watching  the  growing 
light  through  the  little  window  in  the  garret 
roof,  rose  and  began  to  dress  herself  very  quietly, 
lest  she  should  disturb  Lisbeth.  But  already 
some  one  else  was  astir  in  the  house,  and  had 
gone  downstairs,  preceded  by  Gyp.  The  dog's 
pattering  step  was  a  sure  sign  that  it  was  Adam 
who  went  down;  but  Dinah  was  not  aw^are  of 
this,  and  she  thought  it  was  more  likely  to  be 
Seth,  for  he  had  told  her  how  Adam  had  stayed 
up  working  the  night  before.  Seth,  however, 
had  only  just  awakened  at  the  sound  of  the 
opening  door.  The  exciting  influence  of  the 
previous  day,  heightened  at  last  by  Dinah's  un- 
expected presence,  had  not  been  counteracted 
by  any  bodily  weariness,  for  he  had  not  done 
his  ordinary  amount  of  hard  work ;  and  so  when 
he  went  to  bed,  it  was  not  till  he  had  tired  him- 
self with  hours  of  tossing  wakefulness,  that 
drowsiness  came,  and  led  on  a  heavier  morn- 
ing sleep  than  was  usual  with  him. 

But  Adam  had  been  refreshed  by  his  long 
rest,  and  with  his  habitual  impatience  of  mere 
passivity,  he  was  eager  to  begin  the  new  day, 
and  subdue  sadness  by  his  strong  will  and  strong 
arm.     The  white  mist  lay  in  the  valley;   it  was 


168  ADAM   BEDE 

going  to  be  a  bright,  warm  day,  and  he  would 
start  to  work  again  when  he  had  had  his 
breakfast. 

"There's  nothing  but  what's  bearable  as  long 
as  a  man  can  work,"  he  said  to  himself.  "The 
natur  o'  things  does  n't  change,  though  it  seems 
as  if  one's  own  life  was  nothing  but  change. 
The  square  o'  four  is  sixteen,  and  you  must 
lengthen  your  lever  in  proportion  to  your  weight, 
is  as  true  when  a  man's  miserable  as  when  he's 
happy;  and  the  best  o'  working  is,  it  gives  you 
a  grip  hold  o'  things  outside  your  ow^n  lot." 

As  he  dashed  the  cold  water  over  his  head 
and  face,  he  felt  completely  himself  again;  and 
with  his  black  eyes  as  keen  as  ever,  and  his  thick 
black  hair  all  glistening  with  the  fresh  moisture, 
he  went  into  the  workshop  to  look  out  the  wood 
for  his  father's  coffin,  intending  that  he  and 
Setli  should  carry  it  with  them  to  Jonathan 
Burge's,  and  have  the  coffin  made  by  one  of 
the  workman  there,  so  that  his  mother  might 
not  see  and  hear  the  sad  task  going  forward  at 
home. 

He  had  just  gone  into  the  workshop,  when 
his  quick  ear  detected  a  light,  rapid  foot  on  the 
stairs,  —  certainly  not  his  mother's.  He  had 
been  in  bed  and  asleep  when  Dinah  had  come 
in,  in  the  evening,  and  now  he  wondered  whose 
step  this  could  be.  A  foolish  thought  came,  and 
moved  him  strangely.  As  if  it  could  be  Hetty! 
She  was  the  last  person  likely  to  be  in  the  house. 
And  yet  he  felt  reluctant  to  go  and  look,  and 
have  the  clear  proof  that  it  was  some  one  else. 
He  stood  leaning  on  a  plank  he  had  taken  hold 
of,  listening  to  sounds  which  his  imagination 


IN   THE   COTTAGE  169 

interpreted  for  him  so  pleasantly  that  the  keen, 
strong  face  became  suffused  with  a  timid  tender- 
ness. The  light  footstep  moved  about  the 
kitchen,  followed  by  the  sound  of  the  sweeping- 
brush,  hardly  making  so  much  noise  as  the 
lightest  breeze  that  chases  the  autumn  leaves 
along  the  dusty  path;  and  Adam's  imagination 
saw  a  dimpled  face,  with  dark  bright  eyes  and 
roguish  smiles,  looking  backward  at  this  brush, 
and  a  rounded  figure  just  leaning  a  little  to  clasp 
the  handle.  A  very  foolish  thought,  —  it  could 
not  be  Hetty;  but  the  only  way  of  dismissing 
such  nonsense  from  his  head  was  to  go  and  see 
ivho  it  was,  for  his  fancy  only  got  nearer  and 
nearer  to  belief  while  he  stood  there  listening. 
He  loosed  the  plank,  and  went  to  the  kitchen 
door. 

"How  do  you  do,  Adam  Bede  .^"  said  Dinah, 
in  her  calm  treble,  pausing  from  her  sweeping, 
and  fixing  her  mild,  grave  eyes  upon  him.  "I 
trust  you  feel  rested  and  strengthened  again  to 
bear  the  burthen  and  heat  of  the  day." 

It  was  like  dreaming  of  the  sunshine  and 
awaking  in  the  moonlight.  Adam  had  seen 
Dinah  several  times,  but  always  at  the  Hall 
Farm,  where  he  was  not  very  vividly  conscious 
of  any  woman's  presence  except  Hetty's;  and 
he  had  only  in  the  last  day  or  two  begun  to  sus- 
pect that  Seth  was  in  love  with  her,  so  that  his 
attention  had  not  hitherto  been  drawn  towards 
her  for  his  brother's  sake.  But  now  her  slim 
figure,  her  plain  black  gown,  and  '  her  pale 
serene  face  impressed  him  with  all  the  force 
that  belongs  to  a  reality  contrasted  with  a  pre- 
occupying fancy.     For  the  first  moment  or  two 


170  ADAM   BEDE 

he  made  no  answer,  but  looked  at  her  with  the 
concentrated,  examining  glance  which  a  man 
gives  to  an  object  in  which  he  has  suddenly 
begun  to  be  interested.  Dinah,  for  the  first 
time  in  her  life,  felt  a  painful  self- consciousness; 
there  was  something  in  the  dark,  penetrating 
glance  of  this  strong  man  so  different  from  the 
mildness  and  timidity  of  his  brother  Seth.  A 
faint  blush  came,  which  deepened  as  she  won- 
dered at  it.  This  blush  recalled  Adam  from 
his  forge tfulness. 

"I  was  quite  taken  by  surprise;  it  was  very 
good  of  you  to  come  and  see  my  mother  in  her 
trouble,"  he  said,  in  a  gentle,  grateful  tone,  for 
his  quick  mind  told  him  at  once  how  she 
came  to  be  there.  "I  hope  my  mother  was 
thankful  to  have  you,"  he  added,  wondering 
rather  anxiously  what  had  been  Dinah's 
reception. 

"Yes,"  said  Dinah,  resuming  her  work,  "she 
seemed  greatly  comforted  after  a  while,  and 
she's  had  a  good  deal  of  rest  in  the  night,  by 
times.     She  was  fast  asleep  when  I  left  her." 

"Who  was  it  took,  the  news  to  the  Hall 
Farm  ?  "  said  Adam,  his  thoughts  reverting  to 
some  one  there;  he  wondered  whether  she  had 
felt  anything  about  it. 

"It  was  Mr.  Irwine,  the  clergyman,  told  me; 
and  my  aunt  was  grieved  for  your  mother  when 
she  heard  it,  and  wanted  me  to  come;  and  so  is 
my  uncle,  I'm  sure,  now  he's  heard  it,  but  he 
was  gone  out  to  Rosseter  all  yesterday.  They'll 
look  for  you  there  as  soon  as  you've  got  time  to 
go,  for  there's  nobody  round  that  hearth  but 
what's  glad  to  see  you." 


IN   THE   COTTAGE  171 

Dinah,  with  her  sympathetic  divination,  knew 
quite  well  that  Adam  was  longing  to  hear  if 
Hetty  had  said  anything  about  their  trouble; 
she  was  too  rigorously  truthful  for  benevolent 
invention,  but  she  had  contrived  to  say  some- 
thing in  which  Hetty  was  tacitly  included.  Love 
has  a  way  of  cheating  itself  consciously,  like  a 
child  who  plays  at  solitary  hide-and-seek;  it  is 
pleased  with  assurances  that  it  all  the  while  dis- 
believes. Adam  liked  what  Dinah  had  said  so 
much  that  his  mind  was  directly  full  of  the  next 
visit  he  should  pay  to  the  Hall  Farm,  when 
Hetty  would  perhaps  behave  more  kindly  to  him 
than  she  had  ever  done  before. 

"  But  you  won't  be  there  yourself  any  longer  .^" 
he  said  to  Dinah. 

"  No,  I  go  back  to  Snowfield  on  Saturday,  and 
I  shall  have  to  set  out  to  Treddleston  early,  to 
be  in  time  for  the  Oakbourne  carrier.  So  I 
must  go  back  to  the  farm  to-night,  that  I  may 
have  the  last  day  witli  my  aunt  and  her  children. 
But  I  can  stay  here  all  to-day,  if  your  mother 
would  like  me;  and  her  heart  seemed  inclined 
towards  me  last  night." 

"Ah,  then,  she's  sure  to  want  you  to-day. 
If  mother  takes  to  people  at  the  beginning, 
she's  sure  to  get  fond  of  'em ;  but  she's  a  strange 
way  of  not  liking  young  women.  Though,  to 
be  sure,"  Adam  went  on,  smiling,  "her  not  lik- 
ing other  young  women  is  no  reason  why  she 
should  n't  like  you." 

Hitherto  Gyp  had  been  assisting  at  this  con- 
versation in  motionless  silence,  seated  on  his 
haunches,  and  alternately  looking  up  in  his 
master's  face  to  watch  its  expression,  and  ob- 


172  ADAM   BEDE 

serving  Dinah's  movements  about  the  kitchen. 
The  kind  smile  with  which  Adam  uttered  the 
last  words  was  apparently  decisive  with  Gyp  of 
the  light  in  which  the  stranger  was  to  be  re- 
garded; and  as  she  turned  round  after  putting 
aside  her  sweeping- brush,  he  trotted  towards 
her,  and  put  up  his  muzzle  against  her  hand  in 
in  a  friendly  way. 

"You  see  Gyp  bids  you  welcome,"  said 
Adam,  "and  he's  very  slow  to  welcome 
strangers." 

"Poor  dog!"  said  Dinah,  patting  the  rough 
gray  coat,  "I've  a  strange  feeling  about  the 
dumb  things,  as  if  they  wanted  to  speak,  and  it 
was  a  trouble  to  'em  because  they  could  n't. 
I  can't  help  being  sorry  for  the  dogs  always, 
though  perhaps  there's  no  need.  But  they 
may  well  have  more  in  them  than  they 
know  how  to  make  us  understand,  for  we 
can't  say  half  what  we  feel,  with  all  our 
words." 

Seth  came  down  now,  and  was  pleased  to  find 
Adam  talking  with  Dinah;  he  wanted  Adam  to 
know  how  much  better  she  was  than  all  other 
women.  But  after  a  few  words  of  greeting, 
Adam  drew  him  into  the  workshop  to  consult 
about  the  coffin,  and  Dinah  went  on  with  her 
cleaning. 

By  six  o'clock  they  were  all  at  breakfast  with 
Lisbeth  in  a  kitchen  as  clean  as  she  could  have 
made  it  herself.  The  window  and  door  were 
open,  and  the  morning  air  brought  with  it  a 
mingled  scent  of  southernwood,  thyme,  and 
sweetbrier  from  the  patch  of  garden  by  the  side 
of  the  cottage.     Dinah  did  not  sit  down  at  first. 


IN   THE   COTTAGE  173 

but  moved  about,  serving  the  others  with  the 
warm  porridge  and  the  toasted  oatcake,  which 
she  had  got  ready  in  the  usual  way,  for  she  had 
asked  Seth  to  tell  her  just  what  his  mother  gave 
them  for  breakfast.  Lisbeth  had  been  un- 
usually silent  since  she  came  downstairs,  ap- 
parently requiring  some  time  to  adjust  her 
ideas  to  a  state  of  things  in  which  she  came 
down  like  a  lady  to  find  all  the  work  done,  and 
sat  still  to  be  waited  on.  Her  new  sensations 
seemed  to  exclude  the  remem}:)rance  of  her 
grief.  At  last,  after  tasting  the  porridge,  she 
broke  silence. 

"Ye  might  ha'  made  the  parridge  worse,"  she 
said  to  Dinah;  "I  can  ate  it  wi'out  it's  turnin' 
my  stomach.  It  might  ha'  been  a  trifle  thicker 
an'  no  harm,  an'  I  allays  putten  a  sprig  o'  mint 
in  mysen;  but  how's  ye  t'  know  that.^  The 
lads  arena  like  to  get  folks  as '11  make  their  par- 
ridge as  I'n  made  it  for  'em;  it's  well  if  they  get 
onybody  as  '11  make  parridge  at  all.  But  ye 
might  do,  wi'  a  bit  o'  showin' ;  for  ye 're  a  stirrin' 
body  in  a  mornin',  an'  ye've  a  light  heel,  an' 
ye've  cleaned  th'  house  well  enough  for  a  ma'- 
shift." 

"Make-shift,  mother.?"  said  Adam.  "Why, 
I  think  the  house  looks  beautiful.  I  don't  know 
how  it  could  look  better." 

"Thee  dostna  know.?  —  nay;  how's  thee  to 
know  ?  Th'  men  ne'er  know  whether  the  floor  's 
cleaned  or  cat- licked.  But  thee 'It  know  when 
thee  gets  thy  parridge  burnt,  as  it's  like  enough 
to  be  when  I'm  gi'en  o'er  makin'  it.  Thee 'It 
think  thy  mother  war  good  for  summat 
then." 


174  ADAM  BEDE 

"Dinah,"  said  Seth,  "do  come  and  sit  down 
now  and  have  your  breakfast.  We're  all 
served  now.'* 

"Ay,  come  an'  sit  ye  down,  —  do,"  said  Lis- 
beth,  "an'  ate  a  morsel;  ye'd  need,  arter  bein' 
upo'  your  legs  this  hour  an'  half  a'ready.  Come, 
then,"  she  added,  in  a  tone  of  complaining  affec- 
tion, as  Dinah  sat  down  by  her  side,  "I'll  be 
loath  for  ye  t'  go,  but  ye  canna  stay  much  longer, 
I  doubt.  I  could  put  up  wi'  ye  i'  th'  house 
better  nor  wi'  most  folks." 

"I'll  stay  till  to-night  if  you're  willing,"  said 
Dinah.  "I'd  stay  longer,  only  I'm  going  back 
to  Snowfield  on  Saturday,  and  I  must  be  with 
my  aunt  to-morrow." 

"Eh,  I'd  ne'er  go  back  to  that  country.  My 
old  man  come  from  that  Stonyshire  side,  but  he 
left  it  when  he  war  a  young  un,  an'  i'  the 
right  on  't  too;  for  he  said  as  there  war  no 
wood  there,  an'  it  'ud  ha'  been  a  bad  country 
for  a  carpenter." 

"Ah,"  said  Adam,  "I  remember  father  tell- 
ing me  when  I  was  a  little  lad,  that  he  made  up 
his  mind  if  ever  he  moved  it  should  be  south'ard. 
But  I'm  not  so  sure  about  it.  Bartle  Massey 
says  — -  and  he  knows  the  South  —  as  the  north- 
ern men  are  a  finer  breed  than  the  southern, 
harder-headed  and  stronger- bodied,  and  a  deal 
taller.  And  then  he  says,  in  some  o'  those 
countries  it's  as  flat  as  the  back  o'  your  hand, 
and  you  can  see  nothing  of  a  distance,  with- 
out climbing  up  the  highest  trees.  I  could  n't 
abide  that:  I  like  to  go  to  work  by  a  road  that'll 
take  me  up  a  bit  of  a  hill,  and  see  the  fields  for 
miles  round  me,  and  a  bridge,  or  a  town,  or  a 


IN   THE   COTTAGE  175 

bit  of  a  steeple  here  and  there.  It  makes  you  feel 
the  world  's  a  big  place,  an'  there's  other  men 
working  in  it  with  their  heads  and  hands  besides 
yourself." 

"I  like  th'  hills  best,"  said  Seth,  "when  the 
clouds  are  over  your  head,  and  you  see  the  sun 
shining  ever  so  far  off,  over  the  Loamford  way, 
as  I've  often  done  o'  late,  on  the  stormy  days: 
it  seems  to  me  as  if  that  was  heaven,  where 
there's  always  joy  and  sunshine,  though  this 
life's  dark  and  cloudy." 

"Oh,  I  love  the  Stonyshire  side,"  said  Dinah; 
"  I  should  n't  like  to  set  my  face  towards  the 
countries  where  they're  rich  in  corn  and  cattle, 
and  the  ground  so  level  and  easy  to  tread ;  and 
to  turn  my  back  on  the  hills  where  the  poor  peo- 
ple have  to  live  such  a  hard  life,  and  the  men 
spend  their  days  in  the  mines  away  from  the 
sunlight.  It's  very  blessed  on  a  bleak,  cold 
day,  when  the  sky  is  hanging  dark  over  the  hill, 
to  feel  the  love  of  God  in  one's  soul,  and  carry 
it  to  the  lonely,  bare  stone  houses,  where  there's 
nothing  else  to  give  comfort." 

"Eh!"  said  Lisbeth,  "that's  very  well  for  ye 
to  talk,  as  looks  welly  like  the  snowdrop- flowers 
as  ha'  lived  for  days  an'  days  when  I'n  gethered 
'em,  wi'  nothin'  but  a  drop  o'  water  an'  a  peep 
o'  daylight;  but  th'  hungry  foulks  had  better 
leave  th'  hungry  country.  It  makes  less  mouths 
for  the  scant  cake.  But,"  she  went  on,  looking 
at  Adam,  "donna  thee  talk  o'  goin'  south'ard 
or  north'ard,  an'  leavin'  thy  feyther  and  mother 
i'  the  churchyard,  an'  goin'  to  a  country  as  they 
know  nothin'  on.  I'll  ne'er  rest  i'  my  grave  if 
I  donna  see  thee  i'  the  churchyard  of  a  Sunday." 


176  ADAM   BEDE 

"Donna  fear,  mother,"  said  Adam.  '*If  I 
hadna  made  up  my  mind  not  to  go,  I  should  ha' 
been  gone  before  now." 

He  had  finished  his  breakfast  now,  and  rose 
as  he  was  speaking. 

"What  art  goin'  to  do.''"  asked  Lisbeth. 
"Set  about  thy  feyther's  coffin,^" 

"No,  mother,"  said  Adam;  "we're  going  to 
take  the  wood  to  the  village,  and  have  it  made 
there." 

"Nay,  my  lad,  nay,"  Lisbeth  burst  out  in  an 
eager,  wailing  tone;  "thee  wotna  let  nobody 
make  thy  feyther's  coffin  but  thysen  .^  Who'd 
make  it  so  well  ?  An'  him  as  know'd  what  good 
work  war,  an  's  got  a  son  as  is  the  head  o'  the 
village,  an'  all  Treddles'on  too,  for  clever- 
ness." 

"Very  well,  mother,  if  that's  thy  wish,  111 
make  the  coffin  at  home;  but  I  thought  thee 
wouldstna  like  to  hear  the  work  going  on." 

"An'  why  shouldna  I  like  't.^  It's  the  right 
thing  to  be  done.  An'  what's  liking  got  to  do 
wi'  't.'^  It's  choice  o'  mislikings  is  all  I'n  got 
i'  this  world.  One  morsel's  as  good  as  another 
when  your  mouth  's  out  o'  taste.  Thee  mun  set 
about  it  now  this  mornin',  fust  thing.  I  wonna 
ha'  nobody  to  touch  the  coffin  but  thee." 

Adam's  eyes  met  Seth's,  whicii  looked  from 
Dinah  to  him  rather  wistfully. 

"No,  mother,"  he  said,  "I'll  not  consent  but 
Seth  shall  have  a  hand  in  it  too,  if  it's  to  be  done 
at  home.  I'll  go  to  the  village  this  forenoon, 
because  Mr.  Burge  'nil  want  to  see  me,  and  Seth 
shall  stay  at  home  and  begin  the  coffin.  I  can 
come  back  at  noon,  and  then  he  can  go." 


IN   THE    COTTAGE  177 

"Nay,  nay,"  persisted  Lisbeth,  beginning  to 
cry,  "  I'n  set  my  heart  on  't  as  thee  shalt  ma'  thy 
feyther's  coffin.  Thee  't  so  stiff  an'  masterful, 
thee  't  ne'er  do  as  thy  mother  wants  thee.  Thee 
wast  often  angered  wi'  thy  feyther  when  he  war 
ahve;  thee  must  be  the  better  to  him  now  he's 
gone.  He'd  ha'  thought  nothin'  on  't  for  Seth 
to  ma'  's  coffin." 

"Say  no  more,  Adam,  say  no  more,"  said 
Seth,  gently,  though  his  voice  told  that  he  spoke 
with  some  effort;  "mother's  in  the  right.  I'll 
go  to  work,  and  do  thee  stay  at  home." 

He  passed  into  the  workshop  immediately, 
followed  by  Adam;  while  Lisbeth,  automatic- 
ally obeying  her  old  habits,  began  to  put  away 
the  breakfast  things,  as  if  she  did  not  niean 
Dinah  to  take  her  place  any  longer.  Dinah 
said  nothing,  but  presently  used  the  oppor- 
tunity of  quietly  joining  the  brothers  in  the 
workshop. 

They  had  already  got  on  their  aprons  and 
paper  caps,  and  Adam  was  standing  with  his 
left  hand  on  Seth's  shoulder,  while  he  pointed 
with  the  hammer  in  his  right  to  some  boards 
which  they  were  looking  at.  Their  backs  were 
turned  towards  the  door  by  which  Dinah  en- 
tered, and  she  came  in  so  gently  that  they  were 
not  aware  of  her  presence  till  they  heard  her 
voice  saying,  "Seth  Bede!"  Seth  started, 
and  they'^both  turned  round.  Dinah  looked  as 
if  she  did  not  see  Adam,  and  fixed  her  eyes  on 
Seth's  face,  saying  with  calm  kindness,  — 

"I  won't  say  farewell.  I  shall  see  you  again 
when  you  come  from  work.  So  as  I'm  at  the 
farm  before  dark,  it  will  be  quite  soon  enough." 

VOL.  1—12 


178  ADAM   BEDE 

"Thank  you,  Dinah;  I  should  Hke  to  walk 
home  with  you  once  more.  It'll  perhaps  be 
the  last  time." 

There  was  a  little  tremor  in  Seth's  voice. 
Dinah  put  out  her  hand  and  said,  "You'll  have 
sweet  peace  in  your  mind  to-day,  Seth,  for  your 
tenderness  and  long-suffering  towards  your  aged 
mother." 

She  turned  round  and  left  the  workshop  as 
quickly  and  quietly  as  she  had  entered  it.  Adam 
had  been  observing  her  closely  all  the  while,  but 
she  had  not  looked  at  him.  As  soon  as  she  was 
gone,  he  said,  — 

"I  don't  wonder  at  thee  for  loving  her,  Seth. 
She's  got  a  face  like  a  lily." 

Seth's  soul  rushed  to  his  eyes  and  lips:  he  had 
never  yet  confessed  his  secret  to  Adam,  but  now 
he  felt  a  delicious  sense  of  disburthenment,  as 
he  answered,  — 

"Ay,  Addy,  I  do  love  her,  —  too  much,  I 
doubt.  But  she  doesna  love  me,  lad,  only  as 
one  child  o'  God  loves  another.  She'll  never 
love  any  man  as  a  husband,  —  that's  my 
belief." 

"Nay,  lad,  there's  no  telling;  thee  mustna 
lose  heart.  She's  made  out  o'  stuff  with  a  finer 
grain  than  most  o'  the  women;  I  can  see  that 
clear  enough.  But  if  she's  better  than  they  are 
in  other  things,  I  canna  think  she'll  fall  short  of 
'em  in  loving." 

No  more  was  said.  Seth  set  out  to  the  village, 
and  Adam  began  his  work  on  the  coffin. 

"  God  help  the  lad,  and  me  too,"  he  thought, 
as  he  lifted  the  board.  "We're  like  enough  to 
find  life  a  tough  job,  —  hard  work  inside  and 


IN  THE   COTTAGE  179 

out.  It's  a  strange  thing  to  think  of  a  man  as 
can  Hft  a  chair  with  his  teeth,  and  walk  fifty 
mile  on  end,  trembling  and  turning  hot  and 
cold  at  only  a  look  from  one  woman  out  of  all 
the  rest  i'  the  world.  It's  a  mystery  we  can  give 
no  account  of;  but  no  more  we  can  of  the 
sprouting  o'  the  seed,  for  that  matter." 


CHAPTER  XII 

IN     THE     WOOD 


THAT  same  Thursday  morning,  as  Arthur 
Donnithorne  was  moving  about  in  his 
dressing-room  seeing  his  well- looking 
British  person  reflected  in  the  old-fashioned 
mirrors,  and  stared  at,  from  a  dingy  olive-green 
piece  of  tapestry,  by  Pharaoh's  daughter  and 
her  maidens,  who  ought  to  have  been  minding 
the  infant  Moses,  he  was  holding  a  discussion 
with  himself,  which,  by  the  time  his  valet  was 
tying  the  black  silk  sling  over  his  shoulder,  had 
issued  in  a  distinct  practical  resolution. 

"I  mean  to  go  to  Eagledale  and  fish  for  a 
week  or  so,"  he  said  aloud.  "I  shall  take  you 
with  me,  Pym,  and  set  off  this  morning;  so  be 
ready  by  half- past  eleven." 

The  low  whistle  which  had  assisted  him  in 
arriving  at  this  resolution  here  broke  out  into 
his  loudest  ringing  tenor;  and  the  corridor,  as 
he  hurried  along  it,  echoed  to  his  favourite  song 
from  the  "Beggar's  Opera,"  —  "When  the 
heart  of  a  man  is  oppressed  with  care."  Not 
an  heroic  strain;  nevertheless  Arthur  felt  him- 
self very  heroic  as  he  strode  towards  the  stables 
to  give  his  orders  about  the  horses.  His  own 
approbation  was  necessary  to  him,  and  it  was 
not  an  approbation  to  be  enjoyed  quite  gra- 
tuitously; it  must  be  won  by  a  fair  amount  of 
merit.     He  had  never  yet  forfeited  that  approba- 


IN   THE    WOOD  181 

tion,  and  he  had  considerable  reHance  on  his 
own  virtues.  No  young  man  could  confess  his 
faults  more  candidly ;  candour  was  one  of  his  fa- 
vourite virtues;  and  how  can  a  man's  candour 
be  seen  in  all  its  lustre  unless  he  has  a  few  fail- 
ings to  talk  of  ?  But  he  had  an  agreeable  con- 
fidence that  his  faults  were  all  of  a  generous 
kind,  —  impetuous,  warm-blooded,  leonine; 
never  crawling,  crafty,  reptilian.  It  was  not 
possible  for  Arthur  Donnithorne  to  do  anything 
mean,  dastardly,  or  cruel.  "No!  I'm  a  devil 
of  a  fellow  for  getting  myself  into  a  hobble,  but 
I  always  take  care  the  load  shall  fall  on  my  own 
shoulders."  Unhappily  there  is  no  inherent 
poetical  justice  in  hobbles,  and  they  will  some- 
times obstinately  refuse  to  inflict  their  worst  con- 
sequences on  the  prime  offender,  in  spite  of  his 
loudly  expressed  wish.  It  was  entirely  owing 
to  this  deficiency  in  the  scheme  of  things  that 
Arthur  had  ever  brought  any  one  into  trouble 
besides  himself.  He  was  nothing,  if  not  good- 
natured  ;  and  all  his  pictures  of  the  future,  when 
he  should  come  into  the  estate,  were  made  up  of 
a  prosperous,  contented  tenantry,  adoring  their 
landlord,  who  would  be  the  model  of  an  Eng- 
lish gentleman,  —  mansion  in  first-rate  order, 
all  elegance  and  high  taste,  jolly  housekeeping, 
finest  stud  in  Loamshire,  purse  open  to  all  pub- 
lic objects,  —  in  short,  everything  as  different 
as  possible  from  what  was  now  associated  with 
the  name  of  Donnithorne.  And  one  of  the  first 
good  actions  he  would  perform  in  that  future 
should  be  to  increase  Irwine's  income  for  the 
vicarage  of  Hayslope,  so  that  he  might  keep  a 
carriage  for  his  mother  and  sisters.     His  hearty 


182  ADAM  BEDE 

affection  for  the  Rector  dated  from  the  age  of 
frocks  and  trousers.  It  was  an  affection  partly 
fihal,  partly  fraternal,  —  fraternal  enough  to 
make  him  like  Irwine's  company  better  than 
that  of  most  younger  men,  and  filial  enough  to 
make  him  shrink  strongly  from  incurring 
Irwine's  disapprobation. 

You  perceive  that  Arthur  Donnithorne  was 
"a  good  fellow,"  —  all  his  college  friends 
thought  him  such:  he  could  n't  bear  to  see  any 
one  uncomfortable;  he  would  have  been  sorry 
even  in  his  angriest  moods  for  any  harm  to 
happen  to  his  grandfather;  and  his  aunt  Lydia 
herself  had  the  benefit  of  that  soft-heartedness 
which  he  bore  towards  the  whole  sex.  Whether 
he  would  have  self-mastery  enough  to  be  always 
as  harmless  and  purely  beneficent  as  his  good- 
nature led  him  to  desire,  was  a  question  that  no 
one  had  yet  decided  against  him:  he  was  but 
twenty-one,  you  remember;  and  we  don't  in- 
quire too  closely  into  character  in  the  case  of  a 
handsome,  generous  young  fellow,  who  will  have 
property  enough  to  support  numerous  pecca- 
dilloes, —  who,  if  he  should  unfortunately  break 
a  man's  legs  in  his  rash  driving,  will  be  able  to 
pension  him  handsomely;  or  if  he  should 
happen  to  spoil  a  woman's  existence  for  her, 
will  make  it  up  to  her  with  expensive  bon-hons, 
packed  up  and  directed  by  his  own  hand.  It 
would  be  ridiculous  to  be  prying  and  analytic 
in  such  cases,  as  if  one  were  inquiring  into  the 
character  of  a  confidential  clerk.  We  use 
round,  general,  gentlemanly  epithets  about  a 
young  man  of  birth  and  fortune;  and  ladies 
with  that  fine  intuition  which  is  the  distinguish- 


IN  THE   WOOD  183 

ing  attribute  of  their  sex,  see  at  once  that  he  is 
"nice."  The  chances  are  that  he  will  go 
through  life  without  scandalizing  any  one;  a 
seaworthy  vessel  that  no  one  would  refuse  to 
insure.  Ships,  certainly,  are  liable  to  casual- 
ties, which  sometimes  make  terribly  evident 
some  flaw  in  their  construction,  that  would 
never  have  been  discoverable  in  smooth  water; 
and  many  a  "good  fellow,"  through  a  disastrous 
combination  of  circumstances,  has  undergone 
a  hke  betrayal. 

But  we  have  no  fair  ground  for  entertain- 
ing unfavourable  auguries  concerning  Arthur 
Donnithorne,  who  this  morning  proves  himself 
capable  of  a  prudent  resolution  founded  on  con- 
science. One  thing  is  clear:  Nature  has  taken 
care  that  he  shall  never  go  far  astray  with  per- 
fect comfort  and  satisfaction  to  himself;  he  will 
never  get  beyond  that  borderland  of  sin,  where 
he  will  be  perpetually  harassed  by  assaults  from 
the  other  side  of  the  boundary.  He  will  never 
be  a  courtier  of  Vice,  and  wear  her  orders  in  his 
button-hole. 

It  was  about  ten  o'clock,  and  the  sun  was 
shining  brilliantly;  everything  was  looking 
lovelier  for  the  yesterday's  rain.  It  is  a  pleasant 
thing  on  such  a  morning  to  walk  along  the  well- 
rolled  gravel  on  one's  way  to  the  stables,  medi- 
tating an  excursion.  But  the  scent  of  the  stables, 
which  in  a  natural  state  of  things  ought  to  be 
among  the  soothing  influences  of  a  man's  life, 
always  brought  with  it  some  irritation  to  Arthur. 
There  was  no  having  his  own  way  in  the  stables ; 
everything  was  managed  in  the  stingiest  fashion. 
His  grandfather  persisted  in  retaining  as  head 


184  ADAM   BEDE 

groom  an  old  dolt  whom  no  sort  of  lever  could 
move  out  of  his  old  habits,  and  who  was  allowed 
to  hire  a  succession  of  raw  Loamshire  lads  as  his 
subordinates,  one  of  whom  had  lately  tested  a 
new  pair  of  shears  by  clipping  an  oblong  patch 
on  Arthur's  bay  mare.  This  state  of  things  is 
naturally  embittering;  one  can  put  up  with  an- 
noyances in  the  house,  but  to  have  the  stable 
made  a  scene  of  vexation  and  disgust,  is  a  point 
beyond  what  human  flesh  and  blood  can  be  ex- 
pected to  endure  long  together  without  danger 
of  misanthropy. 

Old  John's  wooden,  deep- wrinkled  face 
was  the  first  object  that  met  Arthur's  eyes 
as  he  entered  the  stable-yard,  and  it  quite 
poisoned  for  him  the  bark  of  the  two  blood- 
hounds that  kept  watch  there.  He  could 
never  speak  quite  patiently  to  the  old  block- 
head. 

"You  must  have  Meg  saddled  for  me  and 
brought  to  the  door  at  half- past  eleven,  and  I 
shall  want  Rattler  saddled  for  Pym  at  the  same 
time.     Do  you  hear.^" 

"Yes,  I  hear,  I  hear,  Cap'n,"  said  old  John, 
very  deliberately,  following  the  young  master 
into  the  stable.  John  considered  a  young 
master  as  the  natural  enemy  of  an  old  servant, 
and  young  people  in  general  as  a  poor  contriv- 
ance for  carrying  on  the  world. 

Arthur  went  in  for  the  sake  of  patting  Meg, 
declining  as  far  as  possible  to  see  anything  in 
the  stables,  lest  he  should  lose  his  temper  before 
breakfast.  The  pretty  creature  was  in  one  of 
the  inner  stables,  and  turned  her  mild  head  as 
her  master  came  beside  her.     Little  Trot,  a  tiny 


IN   THE   WOOD  185 

spaniel,  her  inseparable  companion  in  the  stable, 
was  comfortably  curled  up  on  her  back. 

"Well,  Meg,  my  pretty  girl,"  said  Arthur, 
patting  her  neck,  "we'll  have  a  glorious  canter 
this  morning." 

"Nay,  your  honour,  I  donna  see  as  that  can 
be,"  said  John. 

"Not  be.?     Why  not.?" 

"Why,  she's  got  lamed." 

"Lamed,  confound  you!  what  do  you  mean  .?" 

"Why,  th'  lad  took  her  too  close  to  Dalton's 
bosses,  an'  one  on  'em  flung  out  at  her,  an'  she's 
got  her  shank  bruised  o'  the  near  fore- leg." 

The  judicious  historian  abstains  from  narrat- 
ing precisely  what  ensued.  You  understand 
that  there  was  a  great  deal  of  strong  language, 
mingled  with  soothing  "who-ho's"  while  the  leg 
was  examined;  that  John  stood  by  with  quite 
as  much  emotion  as  if  he  had  been  a  cunningly 
carved  crab- tree  walking-stick,  and  that  Arthur 
Donnithorne  presently  repassed  the  iron  gates 
of  the  pleasure-ground  without  singing  as  he 
went. 

He  considered  himself  thoroughly  disap- 
pointed and  annoyed.  There  was  not  another 
mount  in  the  stable  for  himself  and  his  servant 
besides  Meg  and  Rattler.  It  was  vexatious; 
just  when  he  wanted  to  get  out  of  the  way  for 
a  week  or  two.  It  seemed  culpable  in  Provi- 
dence to  allow  such  a  combination  of  circum- 
stances. To  be  shut  up  at  the  Chase  with  a 
broken  arm,  when  every  other  fellow  in  his  regi- 
ment was  enjoying  himself  at  Windsor,  —  shut 
up  with  his  grandfather,  who  had  the  same  sort 
of  affection  for  him  as  for  his  parchment  deeds! 


186  ADAM   BEDE 

And  to  be  disgusted  at  every  turn  with  the 
management  of  the  house  and  the  estate!  In 
such  circumstances  a  man  necessarily  gets  in 
an  ill  humour,  and  works  off  the  irritation  by 
some  excess  or  other.  "Salkeld  would  have 
drunk  a  bottle  of  port  every  day,"  he  muttered 
to  himself;  "but  I'm  not  well  seasoned  enough 
for  that.  Well,  since  I  can't  go  to  Eagledale, 
I'll  have  a  gallop  on  Rattler  to  Norburne  this 
morning,  and  lunch  with  Gawaine." 

Behind  this  explicit  resolution  there  lay  an 
implicit  one.  If  he  lunched  with  Gawaine  and 
lingered  chatting,  he  should  not  reach  the  Chase 
again  till  nearly  five,  when  Hetty  would  be  safe 
out  of  his  sight  in  the  housekeeper's  room;  and 
when  she  set  out  to  go  home,  it  would  be  his  lazy 
time  after  dinner,  so  he  should  keep  out  of  her 
way  altogether.  There  really  would  have  been 
no  harm  in  being  kind  to  the  little  thing,  and  it 
was  worth  dancing  with  a  dozen  ball-room  belles 
only  to  look  at  Hetty  for  half  an  hour.  But 
perhaps  he  had  better  not  take  any  more  notice 
of  her;  it  might  put  notions  into  her  head,  as 
Irwine  had  hinted ;  though  Arthur,  for  his  part, 
thought  girls  were  not  by  any  means  so  soft  and 
easily  bruised;  indeed,  he  had  generally  found 
them  twice  as  cool  and  cunning  as  he  was  him- 
self. As  for  any  real  harm  in  Hetty's  case,  it 
was  out  of  the  question:  Arthur  Donnithorne 
accepted  his  own  bond  for  himself  with  perfect 
confidence. 

So  the  twelve  o'clock  sun  saw  him  galloping 
towards  Norburne ;  and  by  good  fortune  Halsell 
Common  lay  in  his  road,  and  gave  him  some  fine 
leaps  for  Rattler.     Nothing  like  "taking"  a  few 


IN   THE   WOOD  187 

bushes  and  ditches  for  exorcising  a  demon;  and 
it  is  really  astonishing  that  the  Centaurs,  with 
their  immense  advantages  in  this  way,  have  left 
so  bad  a  reputation  in  history. 

After  this,  you  will  perhaps  be  surprised  to 
hear  that  although  Gawaine  was  at  home,  the 
hand  of  the  dial  in  the  courtyard  had  scarcely 
cleared  the  last  stroke  of  three,  when  Arthur  re- 
turned through  the  entrance-gates,  got  down 
from  the  panting  Rattler,  and  went  into  the 
house  to  take  a  hasty  luncheon.  But  I  believe 
there  have  been  men  since  his  day  who  have 
ridden  a  long  way  to  avoid  a  rencontre,  and  then 
galloped  hastily  back  lest  they  should  miss  it. 
It  is  the  favourite  stratagem  of  our  passions  to 
sham  a  retreat,  and  to  turn  sharp  round  upon 
us  at  the  moment  we  have  made  up  our  minds 
that  the  day  is  our  own. 

"The  Cap'n 's  been  ridin'  the  devil's  own 
pace,"  said  Dalton  the  coachman,  whose  per- 
son stood  out  in  high  relief  as  he  smoked  his 
pipe  against  the  stable  wall,  when  John  brought 
up  Rattler. 

"An'  I  wish  he'd  get  the  devil  to  do  's 
grooming  for  'n,"  growled  John, 

"Ay;  he'd  hev  a  deal  haimabler  groom  nor 
what  he  has  now,"  observed  Dalton;  and  the 
joke  appeared  to  him  so  good,  that,  being  left 
alone  upon  the  scene,  he  continued  at  intervals 
to  take  his  pipe  from  his  mouth  in  order  to  wink 
at  an  imaginary  audience,  and  shake  luxuriously 
with  a  silent,  ventral  laughter;  mentally  re- 
hearsing the  dialogue  from  the  beginning,  that 
he  might  recite  it  with  effect  in  the  servants' 
haU. 


188  ADAM   BEDE 

When  Arthur  went  up  to  his  dressing-room 
again  after  luncheon,  it  was  inevitable  that  the 
debate  he  had  had  with  himself  there  earlier  in 
the  day  should  flash  across  his  mind;  but  it  was 
impossible  for  him  now  to  dwell  on  the  remem- 
brance, —  impossible  to  recall  the  feelings  and 
reflections  which  had  been  decisive  with  him 
then,  any  more  than  to  recall  the  peculiar  scent 
of  the  air  that  had  freshened  him  when  he  first 
opened  his  window.  The  desire  to  see  Hetty 
had  rushed  back  like  an  ill-stemmed  current; 
he  was  amazed  himself  at  the  force  with  which 
this  trivial  fancy  seemed  to  grasp  him:  he  was 
even  rather  tremulous  as  he  brushed  his  hair, 
—  pooh!  it  was  riding  in  that  break- neck  way. 
It  was  because  he  had  made  a  serious  affair  of 
an  idle  matter,  by  thinking  of  it  as  if  it  were  of 
any  consequence.  He  would  amuse  himself 
by  seeing  Hetty  to-day,  and  get  rid  of  the  whole 
thincj  from  his  mind.  It  was  all  Irwine's  fault. 
"  If  Irwine  had  said  nothing,  I  should  n't  have 
thought  half  so  much  of  Hetty  as  of  Meg's  lame- 
ness." However,  it  was  just  the  sort  of  day  for 
lolling  in  the  Hermitage,  and  he  would  go  and 
finish  Dr.  Moore's  "  Zeluco"  there  before  dinner. 
The  Hermitage  stood  in  Fir-tree  Grove,  —  the 
way  Hetty  was  sure  to  come  in  walking  from 
the  Hall  Farm.  So  nothing  could  be  simpler 
and  more  natural;  meeting  Hetty  was  a  mere 
circumstance  of  his  walk,  not  its  object. 

Arthur's  shadow  flitted  rather  faster  among 
the  sturdy  oaks  of  the  Chase  than  might  have 
been  expected  from  the  shadow  of  a  tired  man 
on  a  warm  afternoon,  and  it  was  still  scarcely 
four  o'clock  when  he  stood  before  the  tall  nar- 


IN   THE    WOOD  189 

row  gate  leading  into  the  delicious  labyrinthine 
wood  which  skirted  one  side  of  the  Chase,  and 
which  was  called  Fir-tree  Grove,  not  because 
the  firs  were  many,  but  because  they  were  few. 
It  was  a  wood  of  beeches  and  limes,  with  here 
and  there  a  light,  silver-stemmed  birch,  —  just 
the  sort  of  wood  most  haunted  by  the  nymphs: 
you  see  their  white  sunlit  limbs  gleaming  athwart 
the  boughs,  or  peeping  from  behind  the  smooth- 
sweeping  outline  of  a  tall  lime;  you  hear  their 
soft  liquid  laughter,  —  but  if  you  look  with  a  too 
curious,  sacrilegious  eye,  they  vanish  behind 
the  silvery  beeches,  they  make  you  believe  that 
their  voice  was  only  a  running  brooklet,  perhaps 
they  metamorphose  themselves  into  a  tawny 
squirrel  that  scampers  away  and  mocks  you 
from  the  topmost  bough.  It  was  not  a  grove 
with  measured  grass  or  rolled  gravel  for  you  to 
tread  upon,  but  with  narrow,  hollow-shaped, 
earthy  paths,  edged  with  faint  dashes  of  deli- 
cate moss,  —  paths  which  look  as  if  they  were 
made  by  the  free-will  of  the  trees  and  under- 
wood, moving  reverently  aside  to  look  at  the  tall 
queen  of  the  white-footed  nymphs. 

It  was  along  the  broadest  of  these  paths  that 
Arthur  Donnithorne  passed,  under  an  avenue 
of  limes  and  beeches.  It  was  a  still  afternoon, 
—  the  golden  light  was  lingering  languidly 
among  the  upper  boughs,  only  glancing  down 
here  and  there  on  the  purple  pathway  and  its 
edge  of  faintly  sprinkled  moss,  —  an  afternoon 
in  which  Destiny  disguises  her  cold,  awful  face 
behind  a  hazy  radiant  veil,  encloses  us  in  warm 
downy  wings,  and  poisons  us  with  violet-scented 
breath.     Arthur  strolled  along  carelessly,  with 


190  ADAM   BEDE 

a  book  under  his  arm,  but  not  looking  on  the 
ground  as  meditative  men  are  apt  to  do;  his 
eyes  would  fix  themselves  on  the  distant  bend 
in  the  road  round  which  a  little  figure  must 
surely  appear  before  long.  Ah!  there  she 
comes:  first  a  bright  patch  of  colour,  like  a 
tropic  bird  among  the  boughs;  then  a  tripping 
figure,  with  a  round  hat  on,  and  a  small  basket 
under  her  arm;  then  a  deep-blushing,  almost 
frightened,  but  bright- smiling  girl,  making  her 
courtesy  with  a  fluttered  yet  happy  glance,  as 
Arthur  came  up  to  her.  If  Arthur  had  had 
time  to  think  at  all,  he  would  have  thought  it 
strange  that  he  should  feel  fluttered  too,  be  con- 
scious of  blushing  too,  —  in  fact,  look  and  feel 
as  foolish  as  if  he  had  been  taken  by  surprise 
instead  of  meeting  just  what  he  expected.  Poor 
things!  It  was  a  pity  they  were  not  in  that 
golden  age  of  childhood  when  they  would  have 
stood  face  to  face,  eyeing  each  other  with  timid 
liking,  then  given  each  other  a  little  butterfly 
kiss,  and  toddled  off  to  play  together.  Arthur 
would  have  gone  home  to  his  silk-curtained  cot, 
and  Hetty  to  her  homespun  pillow,  and  both 
would  have  slept  without  dreams,  and  to- 
morrow would  have  been  a  life  hardly  conscious 
of  a  yesterday. 

Arthur  turned  round  and  walked  by  Hetty's 
side  without  giving  a  reason.  They  were  alone 
together  for  the  first  time.  What  an  overpower- 
ing presence  that  first  privacy  is!  He  actually 
dared  not  look  at  this  little  butter-maker  for  the 
first  minute  or  two.  As  for  Hetty,  her  feet 
rested  on  a  cloud,  and  she  was  borne  along  by 
warm    zephyrs;    she   had    forgotten   her   rose- 


IN  THE  WOOD  191 

coloured  ribbons;  she  was  no  more  conscious 
of  her  Umbs  than  if  her  childish  soul  had  passed 
into  a  water-lily,  resting  on  a  liquid  bed,  and 
warmed  by  the  midsummer  sunbeams.  It  may 
seem  a  contradiction,  but  Arthur  gathered  a  cer- 
tain carelessness  and  confidence  from  his  timid- 
ity. It  was  an  entirely  different  state  of  mind 
from  what  he  had  expected  in  such  a  meeting 
with  Hetty;  and  full  as  he  was  of  vague  feel- 
ing, there  was  room,  in  those  moments  of  silence, 
for  the  thought  that  his  previous  debates  and 
scruples  were  needless, 

"You  are  quite  right  to  choose  this  way  of 
coming  to  the  Chase,"  he  said  at  last,  looking 
down  at  Hetty;  " it  is  so  much  prettier  as  well  as 
shorter  than  coming  by  either  of  the  lodges." 

"Yes,  sir,"  Hetty  answered,  with  a  tremulous, 
almost  whispering  voice.  She  did  n't  know  one 
bit  how  to  speak  to  a  gentleman  like  Mr.  Arthur, 
and  her  very  vanity  made  her  more  coy  of  speech. 

"Do  you  come  every  week  to  see  Mrs.  Pom- 
fret.?" 

"Yes,  sir,  every  Thursday,  only  when  she's 
got  to  go  out  with  Miss  Donnithorne." 

"And  she's  teaching  you  something,  is  she.?" 

"Yes,  sir,  the  lace-mending  as  she  learnt 
abroad,  and  the  stocking-mending,  —  it  looks 
just  like  the  stocking,  you  can't  tell  it's  been 
mended;  and  she  teaches  me  cutting-out  too." 

"What!   are  you  going  to  be  a  lady's-maid  .?" 

"I  should  like  to  be  one  very  much  indeed." 
Hetty  spoke  more  audibly  now,  but  still  rather 
tremulously;  she  thought,  perhaps  she  seemed 
as  stupid  to  Captain  Donnithorne  as  Luke 
Britton  did  to  her. 


192  ADAM   BEDE 

"  I  suppose  Mrs.  Pomfret  always  expects  you 
at  this  time  ? ' ' 

"She  expects  me  at  four  o'clock.  I'm  rather 
late  to-day,  because  my  aunt  could  n't  spare  me; 
but  the  regular  time  is  four,  because  that  gives 
us  time  before  Miss  Donnithorne's  bell  rings." 

"Ah,  then,  I  must  not  keep  you  now,  else  I 
should  like  to  show  you  the  Hermitage.  Did 
you  ever  see  it  .^" 

"No,  sh-." 

"This  is  the  walk  where  we  turn  up  to  it. 
But  we  must  not  go  now.  I  '11  show  it  you  some 
other  time,  if  you'd  like  to  see  it." 

"Yes,  please,  sir." 

"Do  you  always  come  back  this  way  in  the 
evening,  or  are  you  afraid  to  come  so  lonely 
a  road  .^" 

"Oh,  no,  sir,  it's  never  late;  I  always  set  out 
by  eight  o'clock,  and  it's  so  light  now^  in  the 
evening.  My  aunt  would  be  angry  with  me  if 
I  did  n't  get  home  before  nine." 

"Perhaps  Craig,  the  gardener,  comes  to  take 
care   of  you.^" 

A  deep  blush  overspread  Hetty's  face  and 
neck.  "I'm  sure  he  doesn't;  I'm  sure  he 
never  did;  I  would  n't  let  him;  I  don't  like 
him,"  she  said  hastily;  and  the  tears  of  vexation 
had  come  so  fast  that  before  she  had  done  speak- 
ing a  bright  drop  rolled  down  her  hot  cheek. 
Then  she  felt  ashamed  to  death  that  she  was 
crying,  and  for  one  long  instant  her  happiness 
was  all  gone.  But  in  the  next  she  felt  an  arm 
steal  round  her,  and  a  gentle  voice  said,  — 

"  Why,  Hetty,  what  makes  you  cry  ?  I  did  n't 
mean  to  vex  you.     I  would  n't  vex  you  for  the 


IN   THE   WOOD  193 

world,  you  little  blossom.  Come,  don't  cry; 
look  at  me,  else  I  shall  think  you  won't  forgive 
me. 

Arthur  had  laid  his  hand  on  the  soft  arm  that 
was  nearest  to  him,  and  was  stooping  towards 
Hetty  with  a  look  of  coaxing  entreaty.  Hetty 
lifted  her  long,  dewy  lashes,  and  met  the  eyes 
that  were  bent  towards  her  with  a  sweet,  timid, 
beseeching  look.  What  a  space  of  time  those 
three  moments  were,  while  their  eyes  met  and 
his  arms  touched  her!  Love  is  such  a  simple 
thing  when  we  have  only  one- and- twenty  sum- 
mers and  a  sweet  girl  of  seventeen  trembles 
under  our  glance,  as  if  she  were  a  bud  first  open- 
ing her  heart  with  wondering  rapture  to  the 
morning.  Such  young,  unfurrowed  souls  roll 
to  meet  each  other  like  two  velvet  peaches  that 
touch  softly  and  are  at  rest;  they  mingle  as 
easily  as  two  brooklets  that  ask  for  nothing  but 
to  entwine  themselves  and  ripple  with  ever- 
interlacing  curves  in  the  leafiest  hiding-places. 
While  Arthur  gazed  into  Hetty's  dark,  beseech- 
ing eyes,  it  made  no  difference  to  him  what  sort 
of  English  she  spoke;  and  even  if  hoops  and 
powder  had  been  in  fashion,  he  would  very 
likely  not  have  been  sensible  just  then  that 
Hetty  wanted  those  signs  of  high  breeding. 

But  they  started  asunder  with  beating  hearts : 
something  had  fallen  on  the  ground  with  a  rat- 
tling noise.  It  was  Hetty's  basket;  all  her  little 
work- woman's  matters  were  scattered  on  the 
path,  some  of  them  showing  a  capability  of  roll- 
ing; to  great  leng-ths.  There  was  much  to  be 
done  in  picking  up,  and  not  a  word  was  spoken; 
but  when  Arthur  hung  the  basket  over  her  arm 

VOL.  I — 13 


194  ADAM   BEDE 

again,  the  poor  child  felt  a  strange  difference  in 
his  look  and  manner.  He  just  pressed  her  hand, 
and  said,  with  a  look  and  tone  that  were  almost 
chilling  to  her,  — 

"I  have  been  hindering  you;  I  must  not  keep 
you  any  longer  now.  You  will  be  expected  at 
the  house.     Good- by." 

Without  waiting  for  her  to  speak,  he  turned 
away  from  her  and  hurried  back  towards  the 
road  that  led  to  the  Hermitage,  leaving  Hetty 
to  pursue  her  way  in  a  strange  dream,  that 
seemed  to  have  begun  in  bewildering  delight, 
and  was  now  passing  into  contrarieties  and  sad- 
ness. AYould  he  meet  her  again  as  she  came 
home  ?  Why  had  he  spoken  almost  as  if  he 
were  displeased  with  her,  and  then  run  away  so 
suddenly  ?    She  cried,  hardly  knowing  why. 

Arthur  too  was  very  uneasy,  but  his  feelings 
were  lit  up  for  him  by  a  more  distinct  con- 
sciousness. He  hurried  to  the  Hermitage, 
which  stood  in  the  heart  of  the  wood,  unlocked 
the  door  with  a  hasty  wrench,  slammed  it 
after  him,  pitched  "Zeluco"  into  the  most  dis- 
tant corner,  and  thrusting  his  right  hand  into  his 
pocket,  first  walked  four  or  five  times  up  and 
down  the  scanty  length  of  the  little  room,  and 
then  seated  himself  on  the  ottoman  in  an  uncom- 
fortable, stiff  way,  as  we  often  do  when  we  wish 
not  to  abandon  ourselves  to  feeling. 

He  was  getting  in  love  with  Hetty,  —  that  was 
quite  plain.  He  was  ready  to  pitch  everything 
else  —  no  matter  where  —  for  the  sake  of  sur- 
rendering himself  to  this  delicious  feeling  which 
had  just  disclosed  itself.  It  was  no  use  blink- 
ing the  fact  now,  —  they  would  get  too  fond  of 


IN   THE   WOOD  195 

each  other,  if  he  went  on  taking  notice  of  her; 
and  what  would  come  of  it?  He  should  have 
to  go  away  in  a  few  weeks,  and  the  poor  little 
thing  would  be  miserable.  He  must  not  see  her 
alone  again;  he  must  keep  out  of  her  way. 
What  a  fool  he  was  for  coming  back  from 
Gawaine's! 

He  got  up  and  threw  open  the  windows,  to  let 
in  the  soft  breath  of  the  afternoon,  and  the 
healthy  scent  of  the  firs  that  made  a  belt  round 
the  Hermitage.  The  soft  air  did  not  help  his 
resolutions,  as  he  leaned  out  and  looked  into  the 
leafy  distance.  But  he  considered  his  resolu- 
tion sufficiently  fixed;  there  was  no  need  to  de- 
bate with  himself  any  longer.  He  had  made  up 
his  mind  not  to  meet  Hetty  again;  and  now  he 
might  give  himself  up  to  thinking  how  im- 
mensely agreeable  it  would  be  if  circumstances 
were  different,  —  how  pleasant  it  would  have 
been  to  meet  her  this  evening  as  she  came  back, 
and  put  his  arm  round  her  again  and  look  into 
her  sweet  face.  He  wondered  if  the  dear  little 
thing  were  thinking  of  him  too,  —  twenty  to  one 
she  was.  How  beautiful  her  eyes  were  with  the 
tear  on  their  lashes!  He  would  like  to  satisfy 
his  soul  for  a  day  with  looking  at  them,  and  he 
must  see  her  again,  —  he  must  see  her,  simply 
to  remove  any  false  impression  from  her  mind 
about  his  manner  to  her  just  now.  He  would 
behave  in  a  quiet,  kind  way  to  her,  —  just  to 
prevent  her  from  going  home  with  her  head  full 
of  wrong  f^^ivies.  Yes,  that  would  be  the  best 
thing  to  do,  after  all. 

It  was  a  long  while  —  more  than  an  hour  — 
before  Arthur  had  brought  his  meditations  to 


196  ADAM   BEDE 

this  point;  but  once  arrived  there,  he  could  stay 
no  longer  at  the  Hermitage.  The  time  must 
be  filled  up  with  movement  until  he  should  see 
Hetty  again.  And  it  was  already  late  enough 
to  go  and  dress  for  dinner,  for  his  grandfather's 
dinner- hour  was  six. 


,^17 


CHAPTER   XIII 

EVENING     IN     THE     WOOD 


IT  happened  that  Mrs.  Pomfort  had  had 
a  slight  quarrel  with  Mrs.  Best,  the  house- 
keeper, on  this  Thursday  morning,  —  a 
fact  which  had  two  consequences  highly  con- 
venient to  Hetty.  It  caused  Mrs.  Pomfret  to 
have  tea  sent  up  to  her  own  room,  and  it  inspired 
that  exemplary  lady's-maid  with  so  lively  a 
recollection  of  former  passages  in  Mrs.  Best's 
conduct,  and  of  dialogues  in  which  Mrs.  Best 
had  decidedly  the  inferiority  as  an  interlocutor 
with  Mrs.  Pomfret,  that  Hetty  required  no  more 
presence  of  mind  than  was  demanded  for  using 
her  needle,  and  throwing  in  an  occasional  "yes" 
or  "no."  She  would  have  wanted  to  put  on  her 
hat  earlier  than  usual;  only  she  had  told  Cap- 
tain Donnithorne  that  she  usually  set  out  about 
eight  o'clock,  and  if  he  should  go  to  the  grove 
again  expecting  to  see  her,  and  she  should  be 
gone!  Would  he  come.?  Her  little  butterfly- 
soul  fluttered  incessantly  between  memory  and 
dubious  expectation.  At  last  the  minute-hand 
of  the  old-fashioned  brazen-faced  timepiece  was 
on  the  last  quarter  to  eight,  and  there  was  every 
reason  for  its  being  time  to  get  ready  for  de- 
parture. Even  Mrs.  Pomfret's  preoccupied  mind 
did  not  prevent  her  from  noticing  what  looked 
like  a  new  flush  of  beauty  in  the  little  thing 
as  she  tied  on  her  hat  before  the  looking-glass. 


198  ADAM  BEDE 

"That  child  gets  prettier  and  prettier  every 
day,  I  do  believe,"  was  her  inward  comment. 
"The  more's  the  pity.  She'll  get  neither  a 
place  nor  a  husband  any  the  sooner  for  it. 
Sober  well-to-do  men  don't  like  such  pretty 
wives.  When  I  was  a  girl,  I  was  more  admired 
than  if  I  had  been  so  very  pretty.  However, 
she's  reason  to  be  grateful  to  me  for  teaching  her 
something  to  get  her  bread  with,  better  than 
farm-house  work.  They  always  told  me  I  was 
good-natured,  —  and  that's  the  truth,  and  to 
my  hurt  too,  else  there's  them  in  this  house  that 
would  n't  be  here  now  to  lord  it  over  me  in  the 
housekeeper's  room." 

Hetty  walked  hastily  across  the  short  space 
of  pleasure-ground  which  she  had  to  traverse, 
dreading  to  meet  Mr.  Craig,  to  whom  she  could 
hardly  have  spoken  civilly.  How  relieved  she 
was  when  she  had  got  safely  under  the  oaks  and 
among  the  fern  of  the  Chase!  Even  then  she 
was  as  ready  to  be  startled  as  the  deer  that 
leaped  away  at  her  approach.  She  thought 
nothing  of  the  evening  light  that  lay  gently  in  the 
grassy  alleys  between  the  fern,  and  made  the 
beauty  of  their  living  green  more  visible  than  it 
had  been  in  the  overpowering  flood  of  noon ;  she 
thought  of  nothing  that  was  present.  She  only 
saw  something  that  was  possible,  —  Mr.  Arthur 
Donnithorne  coming  to  meet  her  again  along  the 
Fir-tree  Grove.  That  was  the  foreground  of 
Hetty's  picture;  behind  it  lay  a  bright,  hazy 
something,  —  days  that  were  not  to  be  as  the 
other  days  of  her  life  had  been.  It  was  as  if  she 
had  been  wooed  by  a  river-god,  who  might  any 
time  take  her  to  his  wondrous  halls  below  a 


EVENING   IN   THE   WOOD       199 

watery  heaven.  There  was  no  knowing  what 
would  come,  since  this  strange,  entrancing  de- 
Hght  had  come.  If  a  chest  full  of  lace  and  satin 
and  jewels  had  been  sent  her  from  some  un- 
known source,  how  could  she  but  have  thought 
that  her  whole  lot  was  going  to  change,  and  that 
to-morrow  some  still  more  bewildering  joy  would 
befall  her  ?  Hetty  had  never  read  a  novel ;  if 
she  had  ever  seen  one,  I  think  the  words  would 
have  been  too  hard  for  her;  how  then  could  she 
find  a  shape  for  her  expectations  ?  They  were 
as  formless  as  the  sweet  languid  odours  of  the 
garden  at  the  Chase,  which  had  floated  past  her 
as  she  walked  by  the  gate. 

She  is  at  another  gate  now,  —  that  leading 
into  Fir-tree  Grove.  She  enters  the  wood, 
where  it  is  already  twilight;  and  at  every  step 
she  takes,  the  fear  at  her  heart  becomes  colder. 
If  he  should  not  come!  Oh,  how  dreary  it 
was,  —  the  thought  of  going  out  at  the  other 
end  of  the  wood,  into  the  unsheltered  road,  with- 
out having  seen  him.  She  reaches  the  first 
turning  towards  the  Hermitage,  walking  slowly, 
—  he  is  not  there.  She  hates  the  leveret  that 
runs  across  the  path ;  she  hates  everything  that 
is  not  what  she  longs  for.  She  walks  on,  happy 
whenever  she  is  coming  to  a  bend  in  the  road, 
for  perhaps  he  is  behind  it.  No.  She  is  begin- 
ning to  cry:  her  heart  has  swelled  so,  the  tears 
stand  in  her  eyes;  she  gives  one  great  sob,  while 
the  corners  of  her  mouth  quiver,  and  the  tears 
roll  dow^n. 

She  does  n't  know  that  there  is  another  turn- 
ing to  the  Hermitage,  that  she  is  close  against 
it,  and  that  Arthur  Donnithorne  is  only  a  few 


200  ADAM   BEDE 

yards  from  her,  full  of  one  thought,  and  a  thought 
of  which  she  only  is  the  object.  He  is  going  to 
see  Hetty  again;  that  is  the  longing  which  has 
been  growing  through  the  last  three  hours  to  a 
feverish  thirst.  Not,  of  course,  to  speak  in  the 
caressing  way  into  which  he  had  unguardedly 
fallen  before  dinner,  but  to  set  things  right  with 
her  by  a  kindness  which  would  have  the  air  of 
friendly  civility,  and  prevent  her  from  running 
away  with  wrong  notions  about  their  mutual 
relation. 

If  Hetty  had  known  he  was  there,  she  would 
not  have  cried;  and  it  would  have  been  better, 
for  then  Arthur  would  perhaps  have  behaved 
as  wisely  as  he  had  intended.  As  it  was,  she 
started  when  he  appeared  at  the  end  of  the  side- 
alley,  and  looked  up  at  him  with  two  great  drops 
rolling  down  her  cheeks.  What  else  could  he 
do  but  speak  to  her  in  a  soft,  soothing  tone,  as 
if  she  were  a  bright- eyed  spaniel  with  a  thorn  in 
her  foot  ? 

"Has  something  frightened  you,  Hetty  .^ 
Have  you  seen  anything  in  the  wood  ? 
Don't  be  frightened,- — I'll  take  care  of  you 
now." 

Hetty  was  blushing  so,  she  did  n't  know 
whether  she  was  happy  or  miserable.  To  be 
crying  again,  —  what  did  gentlemen  think  of 
girls  who  cried  in  that  way  ?  She  felt  unable 
even  to  say  "no,"  but  could  only  look  away 
from  him,  and  wipe  the  tears  from  her  cheek. 
Not  before  a  great  drop  had  fallen  on  her  rose- 
coloured  strings;  she  knew  that  quite  well. 

"  Come,  be  cheerful  again.  Smile  at  me,  and 
tell  me  what's  the  matter.     Come,  tell  me." 


EVENING   IN   THE   WOOD       201 

Hetty  turned  her  head  towards  him,  whis- 
pered, "I  thought  you  wouldn't  come,"  and 
slowly  got  courage  to  lift  her  eyes  to  him.  That 
look  was  too  much;  he  must  have  had  eyes  of 
Egyptian  granite  not  to  look  too  lovingly  in 
return, 

"You  little  frightened  bird!  little  tearful  rose! 
silly  pet!  You  won't  cry  again,  now  I'm  with 
you,  will  you  ?" 

Ah,  he  does  n't  know  in  the  least  what  he  is 
saying.  This  is  not  what  he  meant  to  say.  His 
arm  is  stealing  round  the  waist  again,  it  is  tight- 
ening its  clasp;  he  is  bending  his  face  nearer 
and  nearer  to  the  round  cheek,  his  lips  are  meet- 
ing those  pouting  child-lips,  and  for  a  long 
moment  time  has  vanished.  He  may  be  a  shep- 
herd in  Arcadia,  for  aught  he  knows ;  he  may  be 
the  first  youth  kissing  the  first  maiden ;  he  may 
be  Eros  himself,  sipping  the  lips  of  Psyche,  — 
it  is  all  one. 

There  was  no  speaking  for  minutes  after. 
They  walked  along  with  beating  hearts  till  they 
came  within  sight  of  the  gate  at  the  end  of  the 
wood.  Then  they  looked  at  each  other,  not 
quite  as  they  had  looked  before,  for  in  their  eyes 
there  was  the  memory  of  a  kiss. 

But  already  something  bitter  had  begun  to 
mingle  itself  with  the  fountain  of  sw^eets;  al- 
ready Arthur  was  uncomfortable.  He  took  his 
arm  from  Hetty's  waist,  and  said,  — 

"Here  we  are,  almost  at  the  end  of  the 
grove.  I  wonder  how  late  it  is,"  he  added, 
pulling  out  his  watch.  "  Twenty  minutes  past 
eight,  —  but  my  watch  is  too  fast.  However, 
I'd  better  not  go  any  farther  now.    Trot  along 


202  ADAM   BEDE 

quickly  with  your  little  feet,  and  get  home 
safely.     Good-by." 

He  took  her  hand,  and  looked  at  her  half 
sadly,  half  with  a  constrained  smile.  Hetty's 
eyes  seemed  to  beseech  him  not  to  go  away  yet; 
but  he  patted  her  cheek,  and  said  "Good-by" 
again.  She  was  obliged  to  turn  away  from  him, 
and  go  on. 

As  for  Arthur,  he  rushed  back  through  the 
wood,  as  if  he  wanted  to  put  a  wide  space  be- 
tween himself  and  Hetty.  He  would  not  go  to 
the  Hermitage  again;  he  remembered  how  he 
had  debated  with  himself  there  before  dinner, 
and  it  had  all  come  to  nothing,  —  worse  than 
nothing.  He  walked  right  on  into  the  Chase, 
glad  to  get  out  of  the  Grove,  which  surely  was 
haunted  by  his  evil  genius.  Those  beeches  and 
smooth  limes,  —  there  was  something  enervat- 
ing in  the  very  sight  of  them;  but  the  strong 
knotted  old  oaks  had  no  bending  languor  in 
them,  —  the  sight  of  them  would  give  a  man 
some  energy.  Arthur  lost  himself  among  the 
narrow  openings  in  the  fern,  winding  about  with- 
out seeking  any  issue,  till  the  twilight  deepened 
almost  to  night  under  the  great  boughs,  and  the 
hare  looked  black  as  it  darted  across  his  path. 

He  was  feeling  much  more  strongly  than  he 
had  done  in  the  morning;  it  was  as  if  his  horse 
had  wheeled  round  from  a  leap,  and  dared  to 
dispute  his  mastery.  He  was  dissatisfied  with 
himself,  irritated,  mortified.  He  no  sooner  fixed 
his  mind  on  the  probable  consequences  of  giving 
way  to  the  emotions  which  had  stolen  over 
him  to-day  —  of  continuing  to  notice  Hetty,  of 
allowing  himself  any  opportunity  for  such  slight 


EVENING  IN  THE   WOOD       20S 

caresses  as  he  had  been  betrayed  into  al- 
ready —  than  he  refused  to  believe  such  a  future 
possible  for  himself.  To  flirt  with  Hetty  was  a 
very  different  afl^air  from  flirting  with  a  pretty 
girl  of  his  own  station:  that  was  understood 
to  be  an  amusement  on  both  sides;  or,  if  it  be- 
came serious,  there  was  no  obstacle  to  mar- 
riage. But  this  little  thing  would  be  spoken 
ill  of  directly,  if  she  happened  to  be  seen  walk- 
ing with  him;  and  then  those  excellent  peo- 
ple, the  Poysers,  to  whom  a  good  name  was  as 
precious  as  if  they  had  the  best  blood  in  the  land 
m  their  veins,  —  he  should  hate  himself  if  he 
made  a  scandal  of  that  sort,  on  the  estate  that 
was  to  be  his  own  some  day,  and  among  tenants 
by  whom  he  liked,  above  all,  to  be  respected. 
He  could  no  more  believe  that  he  should  so  fall 
in  his  own  esteem  than  that  he  should  break 
both  his  legs  and  go  on  crutches  all  the  rest  of 
his  life.  He  could  n't  imagine  himself  in  that 
position;  it  was  too  odious,  too  unlike  him. 

And  even  if  no  one  knew  anything  about  it, 
they  might  get  too  fond  of  each  other,  and  then 
there  could  be  nothing  but  the  misery  of  part- 
ing, after  all.  No  gentleman,  out  of  a  ballad, 
could  marry  a  farmer's  niece.  There  must  be 
an  end  to  the  whole  thing  at  once;  it  was  too 
foolish. 

And  yet  he  had  been  so  determined  this  morn- 
ing, before  he  went  to  Gawaine's;  and  while  he 
was  there  something  had  taken  hold  of  him  and 
made  him  gallop  back.  It  seemed  he  could  n't 
quite  depend  on  his  own  resolution,  as  he  had 
thought  he  could;  he  almost  wished  his  arm 
would  get  painful  again,  and  then  he  should 


204  ADAM   BEDE 

think  of  nothing  but  the  comfort  it  would  be  to 
get  rid  of  the  pain.  There  was  no  knowing 
what  impulse  might  seize  him  to-morrow,  in  this 
confounded  place,  where  there  was  nothing  to 
occupy  him  imperiously  through  the  livelong 
day.  What  could  he  do  to  secure  himself  from 
any  more  of  this  folly  ? 

There  was  but  one  resource.  He  would  go 
and  tell  Irwine,  —  tell  him  everything.  The 
mere  act  of  telling  it  would  make  it  seem  trivial ; 
the  temptation  would  vanish,  as  the  charm  of 
fond  words  vanishes  when  one  repeats  them  to 
the  indifferent.  In  every  way  it  would  help  him, 
to  tell  Irwine.  He  would  ride  to  Broxton  Rec- 
tory the  first  thing  after  breakfast  to-morrow. 

Arthur  had  no  sooner  come  to  this  determina- 
tion than  he  began  to  think  which  of  the  paths 
would  lead  him  home,  and  made  as  short  a  walk 
thither  as  he  could.  He  felt  sure  he  should 
sleep  now;  he  had  had  enough  to  tire  him,  and 
there  was  no  more  need  for  him  to  think 


CHAPTER  XIV 

THE     RETURN     HOME 


WHILE  that  parting  in  the  wood  was  hap- 
pening there  was  a  parting  in  the  cot- 
tage too,  and  Lisbeth  had  stood  with 
Adam  at  the  door,  straining  her  aged  eyes  to  get 
the  last  ghmpse  of  Seth  and  Dinah,  as  they 
mounted    the   opposite   slope. 

"Eh,  I'm  loath  to  see  the  last  on  her,"  she 
said  to  Adam,  as  they  turned  into  the  house 
again.  "I'd  ha'  been  willin'  t'  ha'  her  about 
me  till  I  died  and  went  to  lie  by  my  old  man. 
She'd  make  it  easier  dyin',  —  she  spakes  so 
gentle  an'  moves  about  so  still.  I  could  be  fast 
sure  that  pictur  w^as  drawed  for  her  i'  thy  new 
Bible,  —  th'  angel  a-sittin'  on  the  big  stone  by 
the  grave.  Eh,  I  wouldna  mind  ha'in'  a  daugh- 
ter like  that;  but  nobody  ne'er  marries  them  as 
is  good  for  aught." 

"Well,  mother,  I  hope  thee  wilt  have  her  for 
a  daughter;  for  Seth's  got  a  liking  for  her,  and 
I  hope  she'll  get  a  liking  for  Seth  in  time." 

"Where's  th'  use  o'  talkin'  a-that'n.?  She 
caresna  for  Seth.  She's  goin'  away  twenty 
mile  aff.  How's  she  to  get  a  likin'  for  him,  I'd 
like  to  know  ?  No  more  nor  the  cake  'uU  come 
wi'out  the  leaven.  Thy  figurin'  books  might 
ha'  tould  thee  better  nor  that,  I  should  think, 
else  thee  mightst  as  well  read  the  commin  print, 
as  Seth  allays  does." 


206  ADAM   BEDE 

"Nay,  mother,"  said  Adam,  laughing,  "the 
figures  tell  us  a  fine  deal,  and  we  could  n't  go  far 
without  'em,  but  they  don't  tell  us  about  folks's 
feelings.  It's  a  nicer  job  to  calculate  them. 
But  Seth's  as  good- hearted  a  lad  as  ever  handled 
a  tool,  and  plenty  of  sense,  and  good-looking 
too;  and  he's  got  the  same  way  o'  thinking  as 
Dinah.  He  deserves  to  win  her,  though  there's 
no  denying  she's  a  rare  bit  o'  workmanship. 
You  don't  see  such  women  turned  off  the  wheel 
every  day." 

"Eh,  thee't  allays  stick  up  for  thy  brother. 
Thee'st  been  just  the  same  e'er  sin'  ye  war  little 
uns  together.  Thee  wart  allays  for  halving 
iverything  wi'  him.  But  what's  Seth  got  to 
do  with  marryin',  as  is  on'y  three- an'- twenty  .'^ 
He'd  more  need  to  learn  an'  lay  by  sixpence. 
An'  as  for  his  desarving  her,  ^ — she's  two  'ear 
older  nor  Seth:  she's  pretty  near  as  old  as  thee. 
But  that's  the  way;  folks  mun  allays  choose  by 
contrairies,  as  if  they  must  be  sorted  like  the 
pork,  —  a  bit  o'  good  meat  wi'  a  bit  o'  offal." 

To  the  feminine  mind  in  some  of  its  moods, 
all  things  that  might  be  receive  a  temporary 
charm  from  comparison  with  what  is ;  and  since 
Adam  did  not  want  to  marry  Dinah  himself, 
Lisbeth  felt  rather  peevish  on  that  score,  —  as 
peevish  as  she  would  have  been  if  he  had  wanted 
to  marry  her,  and  so  shut  himself  out  from  Mary 
Burge  and  the  partnership  as  effectually  as  by 
marrying  Hetty. 

It  was  more  than  half-past  eight  when  Adam 
and  his  mother  were  talking  in  this  way,  so  that 
when,  about  ten  minutes  later,  Hetty  reached 
the  turning  of  the  lane  that  led  to  the  farmyard 


THE   RETURN   HOME  207 

gate,  she  saw  Dinah  and  Seth  approaching  it 
from  the  opposite  direction,  and  waited  for  them 
to  come  up  to  her.  They  too,  Hke  Hetty,  had 
lingered  a  Httle  in  their  walk,  for  Dinah  was  try- 
ing to  speak  words  of  comfort  and  strength  to 
Seth  in  these  parting  moments.  But  when  they 
saw  Hetty,  they  paused  and  shook  hands;  Seth 
turned  homewards,  and  Dinah  came  on  alone. 

"Seth  Bede  would  have  come  and  spoken  to 
you,  my  dear,"  she  said,  as  she  reached  Hetty, 
"but  he's  very  full  of  trouble  to-night." 

Hetty  answered  with  a  dimpled  smile,  as  if  she 
did  not  quite  know  what  had  been  said;  and  it 
made  a  strange  contrast  to  see  that  sparkling, 
self- engrossed  loveliness  looked  at  by  Dinah's 
calm,  pitying  face,  with  its  open  glance  which 
told  that  her  heart  lived  in  no  cherished  secrets 
of  its  own,  but  in  feelings  which  it  longed  to 
share  with  all  the  world.  Hetty  liked  Dinah 
as  well  as  she  had  ever  liked  any  woman;  how 
was  it  possible  to  feel  otherwise  towards  one  who 
always  put  in  a  kind  word  for  her  when  her  aunt 
was  finfling  fault,  and  who  was  always  ready  to 
take  Totty  off  her  hands,  —  little,  tiresome 
Totty,  that  was  made  such  a  pet  of  by  every  one, 
and  that  Hetty  could  see  no  interest  in  at  all  .^ 
Dinah  had  never  said  anything  disapproving  or 
reproachful  to  Hetty  during  her  whole  visit  to 
the  Hall  Farm;  she  had  talked  to  her  a  great 
deal  in  a  serious  way,  but  Hetty  did  n't  mind 
that  much,  for  she  never  listened.  Whatever 
Dinah  might  say,  she  almost  always  stroked 
Hetty's  cheek  after  it,  and  wanted  to  do  some 
mending  for  her.  Dinah  was  a  riddle  to  her; 
Hetty  looked  at  her  much  in  the  same  way  as 


208  ADAM   BEDE 

one  might  imagine  a  little,  perching  bird  that 
could  only  flutter  from  bough  to  bough,  to  look 
at  the  swoop  of  the  swallow  or  the  mounting  of 
the  lark;  but  she  did  not  care  to  solve  such 
riddles,  any  more  than  she  cared  to  know  what 
was  meant  by  the  pictures  in  the  "Pilgrim's 
Progress,"  or  in  the  old  folio  Bible  that  Marty 
and  Tommy  always  plagued  her  about  on  a 
Sunday. 

Dinah  took  her  hand  now,  and  drew  it  under 
her  own  arm. 

"You  look  very  happy  to-night,  dear  child," 
she  said.  "I  shall  think  of  you  often  when  I'm 
at  Snowfield,  and  see  your  face  before  me  as  it 
is  now.  It's  a  strange  thing,  —  sometimes 
when  I'm  quite  alone,  sitting  in  my  room  with 
my  eyes  closed,  or  walking  over  the  hills,  the 
people  I've  seen  and  known,  if  it's  only  been 
for  a  few  days,  are  brought  before  me,  and  I 
hear  their  voices  and  see  them  look  and  move 
almost  plainer  than  I  ever  did  when  they  were 
really  with  me  so  as  I  could  touch  them.  And 
then  my  heart  is  drawn  out  towards  them,  and 
I  feel  theii  lot  as  if  it. was  my  own,  and  I  take 
comfort  in  spreading  it  before  the  Lord  and  rest- 
ing in  his  love,  on  their  behalf  as  well  as  my  own. 
And  so  I  feel  sure  you  will  come  before  me." 

She  paused  a  moment,  but  Hetty  said  nothing. 

"It  has  been  a  very  precious  time  to  me," 
Dinah  went  on,  "last  night  and  to-day,  —  see- 
ing two  such  good  sons  as  Adam  and  Seth  Bede. 
They  are  so  tender  and  thoughtful  for  their  aged 
mother.  And  she  has  been  telling  me  what 
Adam  has  done,  for  these  many  years,  to  help  his 
father  and  his  brother;    it's  wonderful  what  a 


THE   RETURN   HOME  209 

spirit  of  wisdom  and  knowledge  he  has,  and  how 
he's  ready  to  use  it  all  in  behalf  of  them  that  are 
feeble.  .  And  I'm  sure  he  has  a  loving  spirit  too. 
I've  noticed  it  often  among  my  own  people 
round  Snowfield,  that  the  strong,  skilful  men 
are  often  the  gentlest  to  the  women  and  chil- 
dren; and  it's  pretty  to  see  'em  carrying  the 
little  babies  as  if  they  were  no  heavier  than  little 
birds.  And  the  babies  always  seem  to  like  the 
strong  arm  best.  I  feel  sure  it  would  be  so  with 
Adam  Bede.     Don't  you  think  so,  Hetty  .^" 

"Yes,"  said  Hetty,  abstractedly,  for  her  mind 
had  been  all  the  while  in  the  wood,  and  she 
would  have  found  it  difficult  to  say  what  she 
was  assenting  to.  Dinah  saw  she  was  not  in- 
clined to  talk,  but  there  would  not  have  been 
time  to  say  much  more,  for  they  were  now  at 
the  yard-gate. 

The  still  twilight,  with  its  dying  western  red, 
and  its  few  faint  struggling  stars,  rested  on  the 
farmyard,  where  there  was  not  a  sound  to  be 
heard  but  the  stamping  of  the  cart-horses  in  the 
stable.  It  was  about  twenty  minutes  after  sun- 
set; the  fowls  were  all  gone  to  roost,  and  the 
bull-dog  lay  stretched  on  the  straw  outside  his 
kennel,  with  the  black- and- tan  terrier  by  his 
side,  when  the  falling  to  of  the  gate  disturbed 
them,  and  set  them  barking,  like  good  officials, 
before  they  had  any  distinct  knowledge  of  the 
reason. 

The  barking  had  its  effect  in  the  house,  for, 
as  Dinah  and  Hetty  approached,  the  doorway 
was  filled  by  a  portly  figure,  with  a  ruddy  black- 
eyed  face,  which  bore  in  it  the  possibility  of 
looking  extremely  acute  and  occasionally  con- 

VOL.  1—14 


210  ADAM   BEDE 

temptuous  on  market-days,  but  had  now  a  pre- 
dominant after- supper  expression  of  hearty 
good-nature.  It  is  well  known  that  great 
scholars  who  have  shown  the  most  pitiless  acerb- 
ity in  their  criticism  of  other  men's  scholar- 
ship have  yet  been  of  a  relenting  and  indulgent 
temper  in  private  life;  and  I  have  heard  of  a 
learned  man  meekly  rocking  the  twins  in  the 
cradle  with  his  left  hand,  while  with  his  right 
he  inflicted  the  most  lacerating  sarcasms  on  an 
opponent  who  had  betrayed  a  brutal  ignorance 
of  Hebrew.  Weaknesses  and  errors  must  be 
forgiven,  —  alas !  they  are  not  alien  to  us,  — 
but  the  man  who  takes  the  wrong  side  on  the 
momentous  subject  of  the  Hebrew  points  must 
be  treated  as  the  enemy  of  his  race.  There  was 
the  same  sort  of  antithetic  mixture  in  Martin 
Poyser:  he  was  of  so  excellent  a  disposition  that 
he  had  been  kinder  and  more  respectful  than  ever 
to  his  old  father  since  he  had  made  a  deed  of  gift 
of  all  his  property,  and  no  man  judged  his  neigh- 
bours more  charitably  on  all  personal  matters; 
but  for  a  farmer,  like  Luke  Britton,  for  example, 
whose  fallows  were  not  well  cleaned,  who  did  n't 
know  the  rudiments  of  hedging  and  ditching, 
and  showed  but  a  small  share  of  judgment  in 
the  purchase  of  winter  stock,  Martin  Poyser  was 
as  hard  and  implacable  as  the  northeast  wind. 
Luke  Britton  could  not  make  a  remark,  even 
on  the  weather,  but  Martin  Poyser  detected  in 
it  a  taint  of  that  unsoundness  and  general  igno- 
rance which  was  palpable  in  all  his  farming 
operations.  He  hated  to  see  the  fellow  lift  the 
pewter  pint  to  his  mouth  in  the  bar  of  the  Royal 
George  on  market-day;    and  the  mere  sight  of 


THE   RETURN   HOME  211 

him  on  the  other  side  of  the  road  brought  a 
severe  and  critical  expression  into  his  black 
eyes,  as  different  as  possible  from  the  fatherly 
glance  he  bent  on  his  two  nieces  as  they  ap- 
proached the  door.  Mr.  Poyser  had  smoked 
his  evening  pipe,  and  now  held  his  hands  in  his 
pockets,  as  the  only  resource  of  a  man  who 
continues  to  sit  up  after  the  day's  business  is 
done. 

"Why,  lasses,  ye 're  rather  late  to-night,"  he 
said,  when  they  reached  the  little  gate  leading 
into  the  causeway.  "The  mother's  begun  to 
fidget  about  you,  an'  she's  got  the  little  un  ill. 
An'  how  did  you  leave  the  old  woman  Bede, 
Dinah  ?  Is  she  much  down  about  the  old  man  ? 
He'd  been  but  a  poor  bargain  to  her  this  five 
year." 

"She's  been  greatly  distressed  for  the  loss  of 
him,"  said  Dinah;  "but  she's  seemed  more 
comforted  to-day.  Her  son  Adam's  been  at 
home  all  day,  working  at  his  father's  coffin,  and 
she  loves  to  have  him  at  home.  She's  been 
talking  about  him  to  me  almost  all  the  day. 
She  has  a  loving  heart,  though  she's  sorely  given 
to  fret  and  be  fearful.  I  wish  she  had  a  surer 
trust  to  comfort  her  in  her  old  age." 

"Adam's  sure  enough,"  said  Mr.  Poyser, 
misunderstanding  Dinah's  wish.  "There's  no 
fear  but  he'll  yield  well  i'  the  threshing.  He's 
not  one  o'  them  as  is  all  straw  and  no  grain.  I'll 
be  bond  for  him  any  day,  as  he'll  be  a  good  son 
to  the  last.  Did  he  say  he'd  be  coming  to  see 
us  soon  ?  But  come  in,  come  in,"  he  added, 
making  way  for  them;  "I  had  n't  need  keep  y' 
out  any  longer." 


212  ADAM  BEDE 

The  tall  buildings  round  the  yard  shut  out  a 
good  deal  of  the  sky,  but  the  large  window  let 
in  abundant  light  to  show  every  corner  of  the 
houseplace. 

Mrs.  Poyser,  seated  in  the  rocking-chair, 
which  had  been  brought  out  of  the  "right-hand 
parlour,"  was  trying  to  soothe  Totty  to  sleep. 
But  Totty  was  not  disposed  to  sleep ;  and  when 
her  cousins  entered,  she  raised  herself  up,  and 
showed  a  pair  of  flushed  cheeks,  which  looked 
fatter  than  ever  now  they  were  defined  by  the 
edge  of  her  linen  night- cap. 

In  the  large  wicker- bottomed  arm-chair  in 
the  left-hand  chimney- nook  sat  old  Martin  Poy- 
ser, a  hale  but  shrunken  and  bleached  image  of 
his  portly  black-haired  son,  —  his  head  hanging 
forward  a  little,  and  his  elbows  pushed  back- 
wards so  as  to  allow  the  whole  of  his  fore- arm 
to  rest  on  the  arm  of  the  chair.  His  blue  hand- 
kerchief was  spread  over  his  knees,  as  was  usual 
indoors,  when  it  was  not  hanging  over  his  head ; 
and  he  sat  watching  what  went  forward  with 
the  quiet  outward  glance  of  healthy  old  age, 
which,  disengaged  from  any  interest  in  an  in- 
ward drama,  spies  out  pins  upon  the  floor, 
follows  one's  minutest  motions  with  an 
unexpectant,  purposeless  tenacity,  watches 
the  flickering  of  the  flame  or  the  sun-gleams 
on  the  wall,  counts  the  quarries  on  the 
floor,  watches  even  the  hand  of  the  clock, 
and  pleases  itself  with  detecting  a  rhythm 
in  the  tick. 

"  What  a  time  o '  night  this  is  to  come  home, 
Hetty!  "  said  Mrs.  Poyser.  "Look  at  the  clock, 
do ;  why,  it 's  going  on  for  half- past  nine,  and 


THE   RETURN   HOME  213 

I've  sent  the  gells  to  bed  this  half-hour,  and  late 
enough  too;  when  they've  got  to  get  up  at  half 
after  four,  and  the  mowers'  bottles  to  fill,  and 
the  baking;  and  here's  this  blessed  child  wi' 
the  fever  for  what  I  know,  and  as  wakeful  as  if 
it  was  dinner-time,  and  nobody  to  help  me  to 
give  her  the  physic  but  your  uncle,  and  fine  work 
there's  been,  and  half  of  it  spilt  on  her  night- 
gown,—  it's  well  if  she's  swallowed  more  nor 
'nil  make  her  worse  istead  o'  better.  But  folks 
as  have  no  mind  to  be  o'  use  have  allays  the 
luck  to  be  out  o'  the  road  when  there's  any- 
thing to  be  done." 

"I  did  set  out  before  eight,  aunt,"  said  Hetty, 
in  a  pettish  tone,  with  a  slight  toss  of  her  head. 
"But  this  clock's  so  much  before  the  clock  at 
the  Chase,  there's  no  telling  what  time  it'll  be 
when  I  get  here." 

"What!  you'd  be  wanting  the  clock  set  by 
gentlefolks's  time,  would  you  ?  an'  sit  up  burn- 
in'  candle,  an'  lie  abed  wi'  the  sun  a-bakin'  you 
like  a  cowcumber  i'  the  frame  ?  The  clock 
has  n't  been  put  forrard  for  the  first  time 
to-day,  I  reckon." 

The  fact  was,  Hetty  had  really  forgotten  the 
difference  of  the  clocks  when  she  told  Captain 
Donnithorne  that  she  set  out  at  eight;  and  this, 
with  her  lingering  pace,  had  made  her  nearly 
half  an  hour  later  than  usual.  But  here  her 
aunt's  attention  was  diverted  from  this  tender 
subject  by  Totty,  who,  perceiving  at  length  that 
the  arrival  of  her  cousins  was  not  likely  to  bring 
anything  satisfactory  to  her  in  particular,  began 
to  cry,  "Munny,  munny,"  in  an  explosive 
manner. 


214  ADAM  BEDE 

"  Well,  then,  my  pet,  mother's  got  her,  mother 
won't  leave  her.  Totty  be  a  good  dilling,  and 
go  to  sleep  now,"  said  Mrs.  Poyser,  leaning 
back  and  rocking  the  chair,  while  she  tried  to 
make  Totty  nestle  against  her.  But  Totty  only 
cried  louder,  and  said,  "Don't  yock!"  So  the 
mother,  with  that  wondrous  patience  which  love 
gives  to  the  quickest  temperament,  sat  up  again, 
and  pressed  her  cheek  against  the  linen  night- 
cap and  kissed  it,  and  forgot  to  scold  Hetty  any 
longer. 

"  Come,  Hetty,"  said  Martin  Poyser,  in  a  con- 
ciliatory tone,  "go  and  get  your  supper  i'  the 
pantry,  as  the  things  are  all  put  away;  an'  then 
you  can  come  and  take  the  little  un  while  your 
aunt  undresses  herself,  for  she  won't  lie  down 
in  bed  without  her  mother.  An'  I  reckon  you 
could  eat  a  bit,  Dinah,  for  they  don't  keep  much 
of  a  house  down  there." 

"No,  thank  you,  uncle,"  said  Dinah;  "I  ate 
a  good  meal  before  I  came  away,  for  Mrs.  Bede 
would  make  a  kettle- cake  for  me." 

"I  don't  want  any  supper,"  said  Hetty,  tak- 
ing off  her  hat.  "I  can  hold  Totty  now,  if  aunt 
wants  me." 

"Why,  what  nonsense  that  is  to  talk!"  said 
Mrs.  Poyser.  "Do  you  think  you  can  live 
wi'out  eatin',  an'  nourish  your  inside  wi'  stick- 
in'  red  ribbons  on  your  head  ?  Go  an'  get  your 
supper  this  minute,  child;  there's  a  nice  bit  o' 
cold  pudding  i'  the  safe,  — just  what  you're 
fond  of." 

Hetty  complied  silently  by  going  towards  the 
pantry,  and  Mrs.  Poyser  went  on  speaking  to 
Dinah. 


THE   RETURN    HOME  215 

"  Sit  down,  my  dear,  an'  look  as  if  you  knowed 
what  it  was  to  make  yourself  a  bit  comfortable 
i'  the  world.  I  warrant  the  old  woman  was  glad 
to  see  you,  since  you  stayed  so  long." 

"  She  seemed  to  like  having  me  there  at  last ; 
but  her  sons  say  she  does  n't  like  young  women 
about  her  commonly;  and  I  thought  just  at  first 
she  was  almost  angry  with  me  for  going." 

"Eh,  it 's  a  poor  look-out  when  th'  ould  folks 
doesna  like  the  young  uns,"  said  old  Martin, 
bending  his  head  down  lower,  and  seeming  to 
trace  the  pattern  of  the  quarries  with  his  eye. 

"Ay,  it's  ill  livin'  in  a  hen-roost  for  them  as 
does  n't  like  fleas,"  said  Mrs.  Poyser.  "  We  've 
all  had  our  turn  at  bein'  young,  I  reckon,  be  't 
good  luck  or  ill." 

"  But  she  must  learn  to  'commodate  herself  to 
young  woman,"  said  Mr.  Poyser,  "for  it  is  n't 
to  be  counted  on  as  Adam  and  Seth  'uU  keep 
bachelors  for  the  next  ten  year  to  please  their 
mother.  That  'ud  be  unreasonable.  It  is  n't 
right  for  old  nor  young  nayther  to  make  a  bar- 
gain all  o'  their  own  side.  What 's  good  for 
one  's  good  all  round  i'  the  long  run.  I  'm  no 
friend  to  young  fellows  a-marrying  afore  they 
know  the  difference  atween  a  crab  an'  a  apple; 
but  they  may  wait  o'er  long." 

"To  be  sure,"  said  Mrs.  Poyser;  "if  you  go 
past  your  dinner-time,  there'll  be  little  relish  o' 
your  meat.  You  turn  it  o'er  an'  o'er  wi'  your 
fork,  an'  don't  eat  it  after  all.  You  find  faut 
wi'  your  meat,  an'  tne  faut 's  all  i'  your  own 
stomach." 

Hetty  now  came  back  from  the  pantry,  and 
said,  "  I  can  take  Totty  now,  aunt,  if  you  like." 


216  ADAM  BEDE 

"  Come,  Rachel,"  said  Mr.  Poyser,  as  his  wife 
seemed  to  hesitate,  seeing  that  Totty  was  at  last 
nestling  quietly,  "thee'dst  better  let  Hetty  carry 
her  upstairs,  while  thee  tak'st  thy  things  off. 
Thee  't  tired.  It's  time  thee  wast  in  bed.  Thee 
't  bring  on  the  pain  in  thy  side  again." 

*'  Well,  she  may  hold  her  if  the  child  'uU  go  to 
her,"  said  Mrs.  Poyser. 

Hetty  went  close  to  the  rocking-chair,  and 
stood  without  her  usual  smile,  and  without  any 
attempt  to  entice  Totty,  simply  waiting  for  her 
aunt  to  give  the  child  into  her  hands. 

"Wilt  go  to  Cousin  Hetty,  my  dilling,  while 
mother  gets  ready  to  go  to  bed  ?  Then  Totty 
shall  go  into  mother's  bed,  and  sleep  there  all 
night." 

Before  her  mother  had  done  speaking  Totty 
had  given  her  answer  in  an  unmistakable  man- 
ner, by  knitting  her  brow,  setting  her  tiny  teeth 
against  her  under- lip,  and  leaning  forward  to 
slap  Hetty  on  the  arm  with  her  utmost  force. 
Then,  without  speaking,  she  nestled  to  her 
mother  again. 

"Hey,  hey,"  said  Mr.  Poyser,  while  Hetty 
stood  without  moving,  "  not  go  to  Cousin  Hetty  ? 
That's  like  a  babby;  Totty 's  a  little  woman, 
an'  not  a  babby." 

"  It's  no  use  trying  to  persuade  her,"  said  Mrs. 
Poyser.  "She  allays  takes  against  Hetty  when 
she  is  n't  well.     Happen  she'll  go  to  Dinah." 

Dinah,  having  taken  off  her  bonnet  and 
shawl,  had  hitherto  kept  quietly  seated  in  the 
background,  not  liking  to  thrust  herself  between 
Hetty  and  what  was  considered  Hetty's  proper 
work.     But  now  she  came  forward,  and  putting 


THE   RETURN   HOME  217 

out  her  arms,  said,  "  Come,  Totty,  come  and  let 
Dinah  carry  her  upstairs  along  with  mother. 
Poor,  poor  mother!  she's  so  tired,  —  she  wants 
to  go  to  bed." 

Totty  turned  her  face  towards  Dinah,  and 
looked  at  her  an  instant,  then  lifted  herself  up, 
put  out  her  little  arms,  and  let  Dinah  lift  her 
from  her  mother's  lap.  Hetty  turned  away 
without  any  sign  of  ill- humour,  and  taking  her 
hat  from  the  table,  stood  waiting  with  an  air  of 
indifference,  to  see  if  she  should  be  told  to  do 
anything  else. 

"You  may  make  the  door  fast  now,  Poyser; 
Alick's  been  come  in  this  long  while,"  said  Mrs. 
Poyser,  rising  with  an  appearance  of  relief  from 
her  low  chair.  "Get  me  the  matches  down, 
Hetty,  for  I  must  have  the  rushlight  burning  i' 
my  room.     Come,  father." 

The  heavy  wooden  bolts  began  to  roll  in  the 
house  doors ;  and  old  Martin  prepared  to  move, 
by  gathering  up  his  blue  handkerchief,  and 
reaching  his  bright  knobbed  walnut-tree  stick 
from  the  corner.  Mrs.  Poyser  then  led  the  way 
out  of  the  kitchen,  followed  by  the  grandfather, 
and  Dinah  with  Totty  in  her  arms,  —  all  going 
to  bed  by  twilight,  like  the  birds.  Mrs.  Poyser, 
on  her  way,  peeped  into  the  room  where  her  two 
boys  lay,  just  to  see  their  ruddy  round  cheeks 
on  the  pillow,  and  to  hear  for  a  moment  their 
light  regular  breathing. 

"Come,  Hetty,  get  to  bed,"  said  Mr.  Poyser, 
in  a  soothing  tone,  as  he  himself  turned  to  go 
upstairs.  "You  didna  mean  to  be  late,  I'll  be 
bound,  but  your  aunt 's  been  worrited  to-day. 
Good- night,  my  wench,  good- night." 


CHAPTER   XV 

THE     TWO      BED-CHAMBERS 


H 


ETTY  and  Dinah  both  slept  in  the 
second  story,  in  rooms  adjoining  each 
other,  meagrely  furnished  rooms,  with 
no  blinds  to  shut  out  the  light,  which  was  now 
beginning  to  gather  new  strength  from  the  rising 
of  the  moon,  —  more  than  enough  strength  to 
enable  Hetty  to  move  about  and  undress  with 
perfect  comfort.  She  could  see  quite  well  the 
pegs  in  the  old  painted  linen- press  on  which  she 
hung  her  hat  and  gown ;  she  could  see  the  head 
of  every  pin  on  her  red  cloth  pin- cushion; 
she  could  see  a  reflection  of  herself  in  the  old- 
fashioned  looking-glass,  quite  as  distinct  as  was 
needful,  considering  that  she  had  only  to  brush 
her  hair  and  put  on  her  night- cap.  A  queer  old 
looking-glass !  Hetty  got  into  an  ill- temper  with 
it  almost  every  time  she  dressed.  It  had  been 
considered  a  handsome  glass  in  its  day,  and  had 
probably  been  bought  into  the  Poyser  family  a 
quarter  of  a  century  before,  at  a  sale  of  genteel 
household  furniture.  Even  now  an  auctioneer 
could  say  something  for  it:  it  had  a  great  deal 
of  tarnished  gilding  about  it;  it  had  a  firm 
mahogany  base,  well  supplied  with  drawers, 
which  opened  with  a  decided  jerk,  and  set  the 
contents  leaping  out  from  the  farthest  corners, 
without  giving  you  the  trouble  of  reaching  them; 
above  all,  it  had  a  brass  candle-socket  on  each 


THE   TWO   BED-CHAMBERS      219 

side,  which  would  give  it  an  aristocratic  air  to 
the  very  last.  But  Hetty  objected  to  it  because 
it  had  numerous  dim  blotches  sprinkled  over 
the  mirror,  which  no  rubbing  would  remove, 
and  because,  instead  of  swinging  backwards 
and  forwards,  it  was  fixed  in  an  upright  posi- 
tion, so  that  she  could  only  get  one  good  view 
of  her  head  and  neck,  and  that  was  to  be  had 
only  by  sitting  down  on  a  low  chair  before  her 
dressing-table.  And  the  dressing-table  w^as  no 
dressing-table  at  all,  but  a  small  old  chest  of 
drawers,  —  the  most  awkward  thing  in  the 
world  to  sit  down  before,  for  the  big  brass 
handles  quite  hurt  her  knees,  and  she  could  n't 
get  near  the  glass  at  all  comfortably.  But  de- 
vout worshippers  never  allow  inconveniences  to 
prevent  them  from  performing  their  religious 
rites,  and  Hetty  this  evening  was  more  bent  on 
her  peculiar  form  of  worship  than  usual. 

Having  taken  off  her  gown  and  white  ker- 
chief, she  drew  a  key  from  the  large  pocket  that 
hung  outside  her  petticoat,  and,  unlocking  one 
of  the  lower  drawers  in  the  chest,  reached  from 
it  two  short  bits  of  wax  candle,  —  secretly 
bought  at  Treddleston,  —  and  stuck  them  in 
the  two  brass  sockets.  Then  she  drew  forth  a 
bundle  of  matches,  and  lighted  the  candles ;  and 
last  of  all,  a  small  red-framed  shilling  looking- 
glass,  without  blotches.  It  was  into  this  small 
glass  that  she  chose  to  look  first  after  seating 
herself.  She  looked  into  it,  smiling,  and  turn- 
ing her  head  on  one  side,  for  a  minute,  then  laid 
it  down  and  took  out  her  brush  and  comb  from 
an  upper  drawer.  She  was  going  to  let  down 
her  hair,  and  make  herself  look  like  that  picture 


no  ADAM  BEDE 

of  a  lady  in  Miss  Lydia  Donnithorne's  dressing- 
room.  It  was  soon  done,  and  the  dark  hyacin- 
thine  curves  fell  on  her  neck.  It  was  not  heavy, 
massive,  merely  rippling  hair,  but  soft  and 
silken,  running  at  every  opportunity  into  deli- 
cate rings.  But  she  pushed  it  all  backward,  to 
look  like  the  picture,  and  form  a  dark  curtain, 
throwing  into  relief  her  round,  white  neck. 
Then  she  put  down  her  brush  and  comb,  and 
looked  at  herself,  folding  her  arms  before  her, 
still  like  the  picture.  Even  the  old  mottled 
glass  could  n't  help  sending  back  a  lovely  image, 
none  the  less  lovely  because  Hetty's  stays  were 
not  of  white  satin,  —  such  as  I  feel  sure  heroines 
must  generally  wear,  —  but  of  a  dark  greenish 
cotton  texture. 

Oh,  yes !  she  was  very  pretty,  —  Captain 
Donnithorne  thought  so;  prettier  than  anybody 
about  Hayslope,  prettier  than  any  of  the  ladies 
she  had  ever  seen  visiting  at  the  Chase,  —  in- 
deed, it  seemed  fine  ladies  w^ere  rather  old  and 
ugly,  —  and  prettier  than  Miss  Bacon,  the 
miller's  daughter,  who  was  called  the  beauty  of 
Treddleston.  And  Hetty  looked  at  herself  to- 
night with  quite  a  different  sensation  from  what 
she  had  ever  felt  before;,  there  was  an  invisible 
spectator  whose  eye  rested  on  her  like  morning 
on  the  flowers.  His  soft  voice  was  saying  over 
and  over  again  those  pretty  things  she  had 
heard  in  the  wood ;  his  arm  was  round  her,  and 
the  delicate  rose-scent  of  his  hair  was  with  her 
still.  The  vainest  woman  is  never  thoroughly 
conscious  of  her  own  beauty  till  she  is  loved  by 
the  man  who  sets  her  own  passion  vibrating  in 
return. 


THE   TWO   BED-CHAMBERS      221 

But  Hetty  seemed  to  have  made  up  her  mind 
that  something  was  wanting,  for  she  got  up  and 
reached  an  old  black  lace  scarf  out  of  the  linen- 
press,  and  a  pair  of  large  ear-rings  out  of  the 
sacred  drawer  from  which  she  had  taken  her 
candles.  It  was  an  old,  old  scarf,  full  of  rents, 
but  it  would  make  a  becoming  border  round  her 
shoulders,  and  set  off  the  whiteness  of  her  upper 
arm.  And  she  would  take  out  the  little  ear- 
rings she  had  in  her  ears  —  oh,  how  her  aunt 
had  scolded  her  for  having  her  ears  bored !  — 
and  put  in  those  large  ones:  they  were  but 
coloured  glass  and  gilding;  but  if  you  did  n't 
know  what  they  were  made  of,  they  looked  just 
as  well  as  what  the  ladies  wore.  And  se  she  sat 
down  again,  with  the  large  ear-rings  in  her  ears, 
and  the  black  lace  scarf  adjusted  round  her 
shoulders.  She  looked  down  at  her  arms:  no 
arms  could  be  prettier  down  to  a  little  way  be- 
low the  elbow,  —  they  were  white  and  plump, 
and  dimpled  to  match  her  cheeks;  but  towards 
the  wrist,  she  thought  with  vexation  that  they 
were  coarsened  by  butter-making,  and  other 
work  that  ladies  never  did. 

Captain  Donnithorne  could  n't  like  her  to  go 
on  doing  work:  he  would  like  to  see  her  in  nice 
clothes,  and  thin  shoes,  and  white  stockings, 
perhaps  with  silk  clocks  to  them;  for  he  must 
love  her  very  much,  —  no  one  else  had  ever  put 
his  arm  round  her  and  kissed  her  in  that  way. 
He  would  want  to  marry  her,  and  make  a  lady 
of  her;  she  could  hardly  dare  to  shape  the 
thought,  —  yet  how  else  could  it  be  ?  Marry 
her  quite  secretly,  as  Mr.  James,  the  Doctor's 
assistant,  married  the  Doctor's  niece,  and  no- 


222  ADAM  BEDE 

body  ever  found  it  out  for  a  long  while  after, 
and  then  it  was  of  no  use  to  be  angry.  The 
Doctor  had  told  her  aunt  all  about  it  in  Hetty's 
hearing.  She  did  n't  know^  how  it  would  be, 
but  it  was  quite  plain  the  old  Squire  could  never 
be  told  anything  about  it,  for  Hetty  was  ready 
to  faint  with  awe  and  fright  if  she  came  across 
him  at  the  Chase.  He  might  have  been  earth- 
born,  for  what  she  knew:  it  had  never  entered 
her  mind  that  he  had  been  young  like  other  men ; 
he  had  always  been  the  old  Squire  at  whom 
everybody  was  frightened.  Oh,  it  w^as  impos- 
sible to  think  how  it  would  be!  But  Captain 
Donnithorne  w^ould  know;  he  was  a  great  gen- 
tleman, and  could  have  his  w^ay  in  everything, 
and  could  buy  everything  he  liked.  And  noth- 
ing could  be  as  it  had  been  again :  perhaps  some 
day  she  should  be  a  grand  lady,  and  ride  in  her 
coach,  and  dress  for  dinner  in  a  brocaded  silk, 
with  feathers  in  her  hair,  and  her  dress  sweep- 
ing the  ground,  like  Miss  Lydia  and  Lady 
Dacey,  w  hen  she  saw  them  going  into  the  dining- 
room  one  evening,  as  she  peeped  through  the 
little  round  window  in  the  lobby;  only  she 
should  not  be  old  and  ugly  like  INIiss  Lydia, 
or  all  the  same  thickness  like  Lady  Dacey,  but 
very  pretty,  with  her  hair  done  in  a  great  many 
different  w^ays,  and  sometimes  in  a  pink  dress, 
and  sometimes  in  a  white  one,  —  she  did  n't 
know  which  she  liked  best;  and  Mary  Burge 
and  everybody  would  perhaps  see  her  going 
out  in  her  carriage,  —  or  rather,  they  would  hear 
of  it:  it  was  impossible  to  imagine  these  things 
happening  at  Hayslope  in  sight  of  her  aunt.  At 
the  thought  of  all  this  splendour  Hetty  got  up 


THE    TWO    BED-CHAMBERS     223 

from  her  chair,  and  in  doing  so  caught  the  Httle 
red-framed  glass  with  the  edge  of  her  scarf,  so 
that  it  fell  with  a  bang  on  the  floor;  but  she 
was  too  eagerly  occupied  with  her  vision  to  care 
about  picking  it  up;  and  after  a  momentary 
start,  began  to  pace  with  a  pigeon- like  stateli- 
ness  backwards  and  forwards  along  her  room, 
in  her  coloured  stays  and  coloured  skirt,  and 
the  old  black  lace  scarf  round  her  shoulders, 
and  the  great  glass  ear-rings  in  her  ears. 

How  pretty  the  little  puss  looks  in  that  odd 
dress!  It  would  be  the  easiest  folly  in  the  world 
to  fall  in  love  with  her:  there  is  such  a  sweet 
baby-like  roundness  about  her  face  and  figure; 
the  delicate  dark  rings  of  hair  lie  so  charm- 
ingly about  her  ears  and  neck;  her  great  dark 
eyes  with  their  long  eyelashes  touch  one  so 
strangely,  as  if  an  imprisoned  frisky  sprite 
looked  out  of  them. 

Ah,  what  a  prize  the  man  gets  who  wins  a 
sweet  bride  like  Hetty !  How  the  men  envy  him 
who  come  to  the  wedding  breakfast,  and  see  her 
hanging  on  his  arm  in  her  white  lace  and  orange 
blossoms!  The  dear,  young,  round,  soft,  flexi- 
ble thing!  Her  heart  must  be  just  as  soft,  her 
temper  just  as  free  from  angles,  her  character 
just  as  pliant.  If  anything  ever  goes  wrong,  it 
must  be  the  husband's  fault  there;  he  can  make 
her  what  he  likes,  —  that  is  plain.  And  the 
lover  himself  thinks  so  too:  the  little  darling  is 
so  fond  of  him,  her  little  vanities  are  so  bewitch- 
ing, he  would  n't  consent  to  her  being  a  bit 
wiser;  those  kitten-like  glances  and  movements 
are  just  what  one  wants  to  make  one's  hearth 
a  paradise.     Every  man  under  such  circum- 


224  ADAM   BEDE 

stances  is  conscious  of  being  a  great  physiogno- 
mist. Nature,  he  knows,  has  a  language  of  her 
own,  which  she  uses  with  strict  veracity,  and  he 
considers  himself  an  adept  in  the  language. 
Nature  has  written  out  his  bride's  character  for 
him  in  those  exquisite  lines  of  cheek  and  lip  and 
chin,  in  those  eyelids  delicate  as  petals,  in  those 
long  lashes  curled  like  the  stamen  of  a  flower, 
in  the  dark  liquid  depths  of  those  wonderful 
eyes.  How  she  will  dote  on  her  children!  She 
is  almost  a  child  herself,  and  the  little  pink 
round  things  will  hang  about  her  like  florets 
round  the  central  flower;  and  the  husband  will 
look  on  smiling  benignly,  able,  whenever  he 
chooses,  to  withdraw  into  the  sanctuary  of  his 
wisdom,  towards  which  his  sweet  wife  will  look 
reverently,  and  never  lift  the  curtain.  It  is  a 
marriage  such  as  they  made  in  the  golden  age, 
when  the  men  were  all  wise  and  majestic,  and 
the  women  all  lovely  and  loving. 

It  was  very  much  in  this  way  that  our  friend 
Adam  Bede  thought  about  Hetty;  only  he  put 
his  thoughts  into  different  words.  If  ever  she 
behaved  with  cold  vanity  towards  him,  he  said 
to  himself,  it  is  only  because  she  does  n't  love 
me  well  enough ;  and  he  was  sure  that  her  love, 
whenever  she  gave  it,  would  be  the  most  precious 
thing  a  man  could  possess  on  earth.  Before  you 
despise  Adam  as  deficient  in  penetration,  pray 
ask  yourself  if  you  were  ever  predisposed  to  be- 
lieve evil  of  any  pretty  woman,  —  if  you  ever 
could,  without  hard  head-breaking  demonstra- 
tion, believe  evil  of  the  one  supremely  pretty 
woman  who  has  bewitched  you.  No:  people 
who  love  downy  peaches  are  apt  not  to  think  of 


THE   TWO   BED-CHAMBERS      225 

the  stone,  and  sometimes  jar  their  teeth  terribly 
against  it. 

Arthur  Donnithorne,  too,  had  the  same  sort 
of  notion  about  Hetty,  so  far  as  he  had  thought 
of  her  nature  at  all.  He  felt  sure  she  was  a 
dear,  affectionate,  good  little  thing.  The  man 
who  awakes  the  wondering,  tremulous  passion 
of  a  young  girl  always  thinks  her  affection- 
ate; and  if  he  chances  to  look  forward  to 
future  years,  probably  imagines  himself  being 
virtuously  tender  to  her,  because  the  poor  thing 
is  so  clingingly  fond  of  him.  God  made 
these  dear  women  so,  —  and  it  is  a  convenient 
arrangement  in  case  of  sickness. 

After  all,  I  believe  the  wisest  of  us  must  be 
beguiled  in  this  way  sometimes,  and  must  think 
both  better  and  worse  of  people  than  they  de- 
serve. Nature  has  her  language,  and  she  is  not 
unveracious;  but  we  don't  know  all  the  intrica- 
cies of  her  syntax  just  yet,  and  in  a  hasty  read- 
ing we  may  happen  to  extract  the  very  opposite 
of  her  real  meaning.  Long  dark  eyelashes, 
now,  —  what  can  be  more  exquisite  "^  I  find 
it  impossible  not  to  expect  some  depth  of  soul 
behind  a  deep  gray  eye  with  a  long  dark  eye- 
lash, in  spite  of  an  experience  which  has  shown 
me  that  they  may  go  along  with  deceit,  pecula- 
tion, and  stupidity.  But  if,  in  the  reaction  of 
disgust,  I  have  betaken  myself  to  a  fishy  eye, 
there  has  been  a  surprising  similarity  of  result. 
One  begins  to  suspect  at  length  that  there  is  no 
direct  correlation  between  eyelashes  and  morals ; 
or  else,  that  the  eyelashes  express  the  disposi- 
tion of  the  fair  one's  grandmother,  which  is  on 
the  whole  less  important  to  us. 

VOL.  I—  15 


me  ADAM  BEDE 

No  eyelashes  could  be  more  beautiful  than 
Hetty's;  and  now,  while  she  walks  with  her 
pigeon-like  stateliness  along  the  room,  and  looks 
down  on  her  shoulders  bordered  by  the  old 
black  lace,  the  dark  fringe  shows  to  perfection 
on  her  pink  cheek.  They  are  but  dim,  ill- 
defined  pictures  that  her  narrow  bit  of  an  im- 
agination can  make  of  the  future;  but  of  every 
picture  she  is  the  central  figure,  in  fine  clothes; 
Captain  Donnithorne  is  very  close  to  her,  put- 
ting his  arm  round  her,  perhaps  kissing  her; 
and  everybody  else  is  admiring  and  envying 
her,  —  especially  Mary  Burge,  whose  new 
print  dress  looks  very  contemptible  by  the  side 
of  Hetty's  resplendent  toilet.  Does  any  sweet 
or  sad  memory  mingle  with  this  dream  of  the 
future,  —  any  loving  thought  of  her  second 
parents,  —  of  the  children  she  had  helped  to 
tend,  —  of  any  youthful  companion,  any  pet 
animal,  any  relic  of  her  own  childhood  even  ? 
Not  one.  There  are  some  plants  that  have 
hardly  any  roots;  you  may  tear  them  from 
their  native  nook  of  rock  or  wall,  and  just  lay 
them  over  your  ornamental  flower- pot,  and  they 
blossom  none  the  worse.  Hetty  could  have  cast 
all  her  past  life  behind  her,  and  never  cared  to 
be  reminded  of  it  again.  I  think  she  had  no 
feeling  at  all  towards  the  old  house,  and  did  not 
like  the  Jacob's  Ladder  and  the  long  row  of 
hollyhocks  in  the  garden  better  than  other 
flowers,  —  perhaps  not  so  well.  It  was  won- 
derful how  little  she  seemed  to  care  about  wait- 
ing on  her  uncle,  who  had  been  a  good  father  to 
her;  she  hardly  ever  remembered  to  reach  him 
his  pipe  at  the  right  time  w^ithout  being  told. 


THE   TWO   BED-CHAMBERS      227 

unless  a  visitor  happened  to  be  there,  who  would 
have  a  better  opportunity  of  seeing  her  as  she 
walked  across  the  hearth.  Hetty  did  not  un- 
derstand how  anybody  could  be  very  fond  of 
middle-aged  people;  and  as  for  those  tiresome 
children,  Marty  and  Tommy  and  Totty,  they 
had  been  the  very  nuisance  of  her  life,  —  as  bad 
as  buzzing  insects  that  will  come  teasing  you  on 
a  hot  day  when  you  want  to  be  quiet.  Marty, 
the  eldest,  was  a  baby  when  she  first  came  to 
the  farm,  for  the  children  born  before  him  had 
died;  and  so  Hetty  had  had  them  all  three,  one 
after  the  other,  toddling  by  her  side  in  the 
meadow,  or  playing  about  her  on  w^et  days  in 
the  half- empty  rooms  of  the  large  old  house. 
The  boys  were  out  of  hand  now;  but  Totty  w^as 
still  a  day-long  plague,  worse  than  either  of  the 
others  had  been,  because  there  was  more  fuss 
made  about  her.  And  there  was  no  end  to  the 
making  and  mending  of  clothes.  Hetty  would 
have  been  glad  to  hear  that  she  should  never 
see  a  child  again;  they  were  worse  than  the 
nasty  little  lambs  that  the  shepherd  was  always 
bringing  in  to  be  taken  special  care  of  in  lamb- 
ing time;  for  the  lambs  were  got  rid  of  sooner 
or  later.  As  for  the  young  chickens  and  tur- 
keys, Hetty  would  have  hated  the  very  word 
"hatching,"  if  her  aunt  had  not  bribed  her  to 
attend  to  the  young  poultry  by  promising  her 
the  proceeds  of  one  out  of  every  brood.  The 
round  downy  chicks  peeping  out  from  under 
their  mother's  wing  never  touched  Hetty  with 
any  pleasure;  that  was  not  the  sort  of  prettiness 
she  cared  about,  but  she  did  care  about  the 
prettiness  of  the  new  things  she  would  buy  for 


228  ADAM   BEDE 

herself  at  Treddleston  fair  with  the  money  they 
fetched.  And  yet  she  looked  so  dimpled,  so 
charming,  as  she  stooped  down  to  put  the  soaked 
bread  under  the  hen-coop,  that  you  must  have 
been  a  very  acute  personage  indeed  to  suspect 
her  of  that  hardness.  Molly,  the  housemaid, 
with  a  turn-up  nose  and  a  protuberant  jaw,  was 
really  a  tender-hearted  girl,  and,  as  Mrs.  Poyser 
said,  a  jewel  to  look  after  the  poultry;  but  her 
stolid  face  showed  nothing  of  this  maternal  de- 
light, any  more  than  a  brown  earthenware 
pitcher  will  show  the  light  of  the  lamp  within  it. 

It  is  generally  a  feminine  eye  that  first  detects 
the  moral  deficiencies  hidden  under  the  "dear 
deceit"  of  beauty;  so  it  is  not  surprising  that 
Mrs.  Poyser,  with  her  keenness  and  abundant 
opportunity  for  observation,  should  have  formed 
a  tolerably  fair  estimate  of  what  might  be  ex- 
pected from  Hetty  in  the  way  of  feeling,  and  in 
moments  of  indignation  she  had  sometimes 
spoken  with  great  openness  on  the  subject  to 
her  husband. 

"She's  no  better  than  a  peacock,  as  'ud  strut 
about  on  the  wall,  and  spread  its  tail  when  the 
sun  shone,  if  all  the  folks  i'  the  parish  was  dying; 
there's  nothing  seems  to  give  her  a  turn  i'  th' 
inside,  not  even  when  we  thought  Totty  had 
tumbled  into  the  pit.  To  think  o'  that  dear 
cherub!  And  we  found  her  wi'  her  little 
shoes  stuck  i'  the  mud,  an'  crying  fit  to  break 
her  heart  by  the  far  horsepit.  But  Hetty  never 
minded  it,  I  could  see,  though  she's  been  at 
the  nussin'  o'  the  child  ever  since  it  was  a 
babby.  It's  my  belief  her  heart's  as  hard  as  a 
pebble." 


THE   TWO  BED-CHAMBERS      229 

"Nay,  nay,"  said  INIr.  Poyser,  "thee  must  n't 
judge  Hetty  too  hard.  Them  young  gells  are 
like  the  unripe  grain;  they'll  make  good  meal 
by  and  by,  but  they're  squashy  as  yet.  Thee't 
see  Hetty '11  be  all  right  when  she's  got  a  good 
husband  and  children  of  her  own." 

"/  don't  want  to  be  hard  upo'  the  gell.  She's 
got  cliver  fingers  of  her  own,  and  can  be  useful 
enough  when  she  likes,  and  I  should  miss  her  w  i' 
the  butter,  for  she's  got  a  cool  hand.  An'  let  be 
what  may,  I'd  strive  to  do  my  part  by  a  niece  o' 
yours,  an'  that  I've  done:  for  I've  taught  her 
everything  as  belongs  to  a  house,  an'  I've  told 
her  her  duty  often  enough,  though,  God  knows, 
I've  no  breath  to  spare,  an'  that  catchin'  pain 
comes  on  dreadful  by  times.  Wi'  them  three 
gells  in  the  house  I'd  need  have  twice  the 
strength,  to  keep  'em  up  to  their  work.  It's 
like  having  roast  meat  at  three  fires;  as  soon  as 
you've  basted  one,  another's  burnin'." 

Hetty  stood  sufficiently  in  awe  of  her  aunt  to 
be  anxious  to  conceal  from  her  so  much  of  her 
vanity  as  could  be  hidden  without  too  great  a 
sacrifice.  She  could  not  resist  spending  her 
money  in  bits  of  finery  which  Mrs.  Poyser  dis- 
approved; but  she  would  have  been  ready  to 
die  with  shame,  vexation,  and  fright,  if  her  aunt 
had  this  moment  opened  the  door,  and  seen  her 
with  her  bits  of  candle  lighted,  and  strutting 
about  decked  in  her  scarf  and  ear-rings.  To 
prevent  such  a  surprise,  she  always  bolted  her 
door,  and  she  had  not  forgotten  to  do  so  to- 
night. It  w^as  w^ell ;  for  there  now^  came  a  light 
tap,  and  Hetty,  with  a  leaping  heart,  rushed  to 
blow  out  the  candles  and  throw^  them  into  the 


230  ADAM  BEDE 

drawer.  She  dared  not  stay  to  take  out  her  ear- 
rings, but  she  threw  off  her  scarf,  and  let  it  fall 
on  the  floor,  before  the  light  tap  came  again. 
We  shall  know  how  it  was  that  the  light  tap 
came,  if  we  leave  Hetty  for  a  short  time,  and 
return  to  Dinah,  at  the  moment  when  she  had 
delivered  Totty  to  her  mother's  arms,  and 
was  come  upstairs  to  her  bedroom,  adjoining 
Hetty's. 

Dinah  delighted  in  her  bedroom  window.  Be- 
ing on  the  second  story  of  that  tall  house,  it  gave 
her  a  wide  view  over  the  fields.  The  thickness 
of  the  wall  formed  a  broad  step  about  a  yard 
below  the  window,  where  she  could  place  her 
chair.  And  now  the  first  thing  she  did,  on  en- 
tering her  room,  was  to  seat  herself  in  this  chair, 
and  look  out  on  the  peaceful  fields  beyond  which 
the  large  moon  was  rising,  just  above  the  hedge- 
row elms.  She  liked  the  pasture  best  where  the 
milch  cows  were  lying,  and  next  to  that  the 
meadow  where  the  grass  was  half  mown,  and 
lay  in  silvered  sweeping  lines.  Her  heart  was 
very  full,  for  there  was  to  be  only  one  more  night 
on  which  she  would  look  out  on  those  fields  for 
a  long  time  to  come;  but  she  thought  little  of 
leaving  the  mere  scene,  for  to  her  bleak  Snow- 
field  had  just  as  many  charms:  she  thought  of 
all  the  dear  people  whom  she  had  learned  to 
care  for  among  these  peaceful  fields,  and  who 
now  would  have  a  place  in  her  loving  remem- 
brance forever.  She  thought  of  the  struggles 
and  the  weariness  that  might  lie  before  them  in 
the  rest  of  their  life's  journey,  when  she  w^ould 
be  away  from  them,  and  know  nothing  of  what 
was  befalling  them;    and  the  pressure  of  this 


THE   TWO   BED-CHAMBERS      231 

thought  soon  became  too  strong  for  her  to  enjoy 
the  unresponding  stillness  of  the  moonlit  fields. 
She  closed  her  eyes  that  she  might  feel  more 
intensely  the  presence  of  a  Love  and  Sympa- 
thy deeper  and  more  tender  than  was  breathed 
from  the  earth  and  sky.  That  was  often 
Dinah's  mode  of  praying  in  solitude.  Simply 
to  close  her  eyes,  and  to  feel  herself  enclosed  by 
the  Divine  Presence;  then  gradually  her  fears, 
her  yearning  anxieties  for  others,  melted  away 
like  ice-crystals  in  a  warm  ocean.  She  had  sat 
in  this  way  perfectly  still,  with  her  hands 
crossed  on  her  lap,  and  the  pale  light  resting 
on  her  calm  face,  for  at  least  ten  minutes,  when 
she  was  startled  by  a  loud  sound,  apparently 
of  something  falling  in  Hetty's  room.  But  like 
all  sounds  that  fall  on  our  ears  in  a  state  of  ab- 
straction, it  had  no  distinct  character,  but  was 
simply  loud  and  startling,  so  that  she  felt  un- 
certain whether  she  had  interpreted  it  rightly. 
She  rose  and  listened,  but  all  was  quiet  after- 
wards, and  she  reflected  that  Hetty  might  merely 
have  knocked  something  down  in  getting  into 
bed.  She  began  slowly  to  undress;  but  now, 
owing  to  the  suggestions  of  this  sound,  her 
thoughts  became  concentrated  on  Hetty:  that 
sweet  young  thing,  with  life  and  all  its  trials 
before  her,  —  the  solemn  daily  duties  of  the  wife 
and  mother,  —  and  her  mind  so  unprepared 
for  them  all;  bent  merely  on  little  foolish,  selfish 
pleasures,  like  a  child  hugging  its  toys  in  the  be- 
ginning of  a  long  toilsome  journey,  in  which  it 
will  have  to  bear  hunger  and  cold  and  unshel- 
tered darkness.  Dinah  felt  a  double  care  for 
Hetty,   because  she  shared  Seth's  anxious  in- 


232  ADAM   BEDE 

terest  in  his  brother's  lot,  and  she  had  not  come 
to  the  conclusion  that  Hetty  did  not  love  Adam 
well  enough  to  marry  him.  She  saw  too  clearly 
the  absence  of  any  warm,  self- devoting  love  in 
Hetty's  nature,  to  regard  the  coldness  of  her 
behaviour  towards  Adam  as  any  indication  that 
he  was  not  the  man  she  would  like  to  have  for 
a  husband.  And  this  blank  in  Hetty's  nature, 
instead  of  exciting  Dinah's  dislike,  only  touched 
her  with  a  deeper  pity.  The  lovely  face  and 
form  affected  her  as  beauty  always  affects  a  pure 
and  tender  mind,  free  from  selfish  jealousies: 
it  was  an  excellent,  divine  gift,  that  gave  a 
deeper  pathos  to  the  need,  the  sin,  the  sorrow 
with  which  it  was  mingled,  as  the  canker  in 
a  lily-white  bud  is  more  grievous  to  behold  than 
in  a  common  pot-herb. 

By  the  time  Dinah  had  undressed  and  put  on 
her  nightgown,  this  feeling  about  Hetty  had 
gathered  a  painful  intensity;  her  imagination 
had  created  a  thorny  thicket  of  sin  and  sorrow, 
in  which  she  saw  the  poor  thing  struggling,  torn 
and  bleeding,  looking  with  tears  for  rescue  and 
finding  none.  It  was  in  this  way  that  Dinah's 
imagination  and  sympathy  acted  and  reacted 
habitually,  each  heightening  the  other.  She 
felt  a  deep  longing  to  go  now  and  pour  into 
Hetty's  ear  all  the  words  of  tender  warning  and 
appeal  that  rushed  into  her  mind.  But  perhaps 
Hetty  was  already  asleep.  Dinah  put  her  ear  to 
the  partition,  and  heard  still  some  slight  noises, 
which  convinced  her  that  Hetty  was  not  yet  in 
bed.  Still  she  hesitated;  she  was  not  quite  cer- 
tain of  a  divine  direction;  the  voice  that  told 
her  to   go  to   Hetty  seemed   no   stronger   than 


THE   TWO   BED-CHAMBERS      233 

the  other  voice  which  said  that  Hetty  was  weary, 
and  that  going  to  her  now  in  an  unseasonable 
moment  would  only  tend  to  close  her  heart 
more  obstinately.  Dinah  was  not  satisfied 
without  a  more  unmistakable  guidance  than 
those  inward  voices.  There  was  light  enough 
for  her,  if  she  opened  her  Bible,  to  discern  the 
text  sufficiently  to  know  what  it  would  say  to 
her.  She  knew  the  physiognomy  of  every  page, 
and  could  tell  on  what  book  she  opened,  some- 
times on  what  chapter,  without  seeing  title  or 
number.  It  was  a  small,  thick  Bible,  worn 
quite  round  at  the  edges.  Dinah  laid  it  side- 
ways on  the  window  ledge,  where  the  light  was 
strongest,  and  then  opened  it  with  her  forefinger. 
The  first  words  she  looked  at  were  those  at  the 
top  of  the  left-hand  page:  "And  they  all  wept 
sore,  and  fell  on  Paul's  neck  and  kissed  him." 
That  was  enough  for  Dinah;  she  had  opened 
on  that  memorable  parting  at  Ephesus,  when 
Paul  had  felt  bound  to  open  his  heart  in  a  last 
exhortation  and  warning.  She  hesitated  no 
longer,  but,  opening  her  own  door  gently,  went 
and  tapped  at  Hetty's.  We  know  she  had  to 
tap  twice,  because  Hetty  had  to  put  out  the 
candles  and  throw  off  her  black  lace  scarf;  but 
after  the  second  tap  the  door  was  opened 
immediately.  Dinah  said,  "Will  you  let  me 
come  in,  Hetty  .'^"  and  Hetty  without  speaking, 
for  she  was  confused  and  vexed,  opened  the 
door  wider  and  let  her  in. 

What  a  strange  contrast  the  two  figures  made ! 
Visible  enough  in  that  mingled  twilight  and 
moonlight.  Hetty,  her  cheeks  flushed  and  her 
eyes  glistening  from  her  imaginary  drama,  her 


234  ADAM   BEDE 

beautiful  neck  and  arms  bare,  her  hair  hanging 
in  a  curly  tangle  down  her  back,  and  the  baubles 
in  her  ears;  Dinah,  covered  with  her  long  white 
dress,  her  pale  face  full  of  subdued  emotion, 
almost  like  a  lovely  corpse  into  which  the  soul 
has  returned  charged  with  sublimer  secrets  and 
a  sublimer  love.  They  were  nearly  of  the  same 
height;  Dinah  evidently  a  little  the  taller  as  she 
put  her  arm  round  Hetty's  waist,  and  kissed  her 
forehead. 

"I  knew  you  were  not  in  bed,  my  dear,"  she 
said,  in  her  sweet,  clear  voice,  which  was  irritat- 
ing to  Hetty,  iningling  with  her  own  peevish 
vexation  like  music  with  jangling  chains,  "for 
I  heard  you  moving;  and  I  longed  to  speak  to 
you  again  to-night,  for  it  is  the  last  but  one  that 
I  shall  be  here,  and  we  don't  know  what  may 
happen  to-morrow^  to  keep  us  apart.  Shall  I 
sit  down  with  you  while  you  do  up  your  hair  ?'' 

"Oh,  yes,"  said  Hetty,  hastily  turning  round 
and  reaching  the  second  chair  in  the  room,  glad 
that  Dinah  looked  as  if  she  did  not  notice  her 
ear-rings. 

Dinah  sat  down,  and  Hetty  began  to  brush 
together  her  hair  before  twisting  it  up,  doing  it 
with  that  air  of  excessive  indifference  which  be- 
longs to  confused  self-consciousness.  But  the 
expression  of  Dinah's  eyes  gradually  relieved 
her;   they  seemed  unobservant  of  all  details. 

"Dear  Hetty,"  she  said,  "it  has  been  borne 
in  upon  my  mind  to-night  that  you  may  some 
day  be  in  trouble,  —  trouble  is  appointed  for  us 
all  here  below,  and  there  comes  a  time  when  we 
need  more  comfort  and  help  than  the  things  of 
this  life  can  give.     I  want  to  tell  you  that  if  ever 


THE   TWO    BED-CHAMBERS      235 

you  are  in  trouble,  and  need  a  friend  that  will 
always  feel  for  you  and  love  you,  you  have  got 
that  friend  in  Dinah  Morris  at  Snowfield;  and 
if  you  come  to  her,  or  send  for  her,  she'll  never 
forget  this  night  and  the  words  she  is  speaking 
to  you  now.     Will  you  remember  it,  Hetty  ?" 

"Yes,"  said  Hetty,  rather  frightened.  "But 
why  should  you  think  I  shall  be  in  trouble  ? 
Do  you  know  of  anything  .?" 

Hetty  had  seated  herself  as  she  tied  on  her 
cap;  and  now  Dinah  leaned  forwards  and  took 
her  hands  as  she  answered,  — 

"Because,  dear,  trouble  comes  to  us  all  in 
this  life:  we  set  our  hearts  on  things  which  it 
is  n't  God's  will  for  us  to  have,  and  then  w^e  go 
sorrowing;  the  people  we  love  are  taken  from 
us,  and  we  can  joy  in  nothing  because  they  are 
not  with  us ;  sickness  comes,  and  we  faint  under 
the  burden  of  our  feeble  bodies;  we  go  astray 
and  do  wrong,  and  bring  ourselves  into  trouble 
with  our  fellow- men.  There  is  no  man  or 
woman  born  into  this  world  to  whom  some  of 
these  trials  do  not  fall,  and  so  I  feel  that  some 
of  them  must  happen  to  you;  and  I  desire  for 
you,  that  while  you  are  young  you  should  seek 
for  strength  from  your  Heavenly  Father,  that 
you  may  have  a  support  which  w  ill  not  fail  you 
in  the  evil  day." 

Dinah  paused  and  released  Hetty's  hands, 
that  she  might  not  hinder  her.  Hetty  sat  quite 
still.  She  felt  no  response  within  herself  to 
Dinah's  anxious  affection;  but  Dinah's  w^ords, 
uttered  with  solemn,  pathetic  distinctness,  af- 
fected her  with  a  chill  fear.  Her  flush  had  died 
away  almost  to  paleness;   she  had  the  timidity 


236  ADAM   BEDE 

of  a  luxurious,  pleasure- seeking  nature,  which 
shrinks  from  the  hint  of  pain.  Dinah  saw  the 
effect;  and  her  tender,  anxious  pleading  became 
the  more  earnest,  till  Hetty,  full  of  a  vague  fear 
that  something  evil  was  some  time  to  befall  her, 
began  to  cry. 

It  is  our  habit  to  say  that  while  the  lower 
nature  can  never  understand  the  higher,  the 
higher  nature  commands  a  complete  view  of 
the  lower.  But  I  think  the  higher  nature  has 
to  learn  this  comprehension,  as  we  learn  the  art 
of  vision,  by  a  good  deal  of  hard  experience, 
often  with  bruises  and  gashes  incurred  in  tak- 
ing things  up  by  the  wTong  end,  and  fancying 
our  space  wider  than  it  is.  Dinah  had  never 
seen  Hetty  affected  in  this  way  before,  and, 
with  her  usual  benignant  hopefulness,  she 
trusted  it  was  the  stirring  of  a  divine  impulse. 
She  kissed  the  sobbing  thing,  and  began  to  cry 
with  her  for  grateful  joy.  But  Hetty  was  sim- 
ply in  that  excitable  state  of  mind  in  which  there 
is  no  calculating  what  turn  the  feelings  may  take 
from  one  moment  to  another,  and  for  the  first 
time  she  became  irritated  under  Dinah's  caress. 
She  pushed  her  aw^ay  impatiently,  and  said, 
with  a  childish,  sobbing  voice, — 

"Don't  talk  to  me  so,  Dinah.  Why  do  you 
come  to  frighten  me  .^  I've  never  done  any- 
thing to  you.     Why  can't  you  let  me  be  .^" 

Poor  Dinah  felt  a  pang.  She  was  too  wise  to 
persist,  and  only  said  mildly:  "Yes,  my  dear, 
you're  tired;  I  won't  hinder  you  any  longer. 
Make  haste  and  get  into  bed.     Good- night." 

She  went  out  of  the  room  almost  as  quietly 
and  quickly  as  if  she  had  been  a  ghost;    but 


THE   TWO   BED-CHAMBERS      237 

once  by  the  side  of  her  own  bed,  she  threw  her- 
self on  her  knees,  and  poured  out  in  deep  silence 
all  the  passionate  pity  that  filled  her  heart. 

As  for  Hetty,  she  was  soon  in  the  wood 
again,  —  her  waking  dreams  being  merged  in 
a  sleeping  life  scarcely  more  fragmentary  and 
confused. 


CHAPTER  XVI 

LINKS 


ARTHUR  DONNITHORNE,  you  re 
member,  is  under  an  engagement  with 
himself  to  go  and  see  Mr.  Irwine  this 
Friday  morning,  and  he  is  awake  and  dressing 
so  early  that  he  determines  to  go  before  break- 
fast, instead  of  after.  The  Rector,  he  knows, 
breakfasts  alone  at  half- past  nine,  the  ladies  of 
the  family  having  a  different  breakfast  hour; 
Arthur  will  have  an  early  ride  over  the  hill,  and 
breakfast  with  him.  One  can  say  everything 
best  over  a  meal. 

The  progress  of  civilization  has  made  a  break- 
fast or  a  dinner  an  easy  and  cheerful  substitute 
for  more  troublesome  and  disagreeable  ceremo- 
nies. We  take  a  less  gloomy  view  of  our  errors 
now  our  father  confessor  listens  to  us  over  his 
egg  and  coffee.  We  are  more  distinctly  con- 
scious that  rude  penances  are  out  of  the  ques- 
tion for  gentlemen  in  an  enlightened  age,  and 
that  mortal  sin  is  not  incompatible  with  an  appe- 
tite for  muffins.  An  assault  on  our  pockets, 
which  in  more  barbarous  times  would  have  been 
made  in  the  brusque  form  of  a  pistol-shot,  is 
quite  a  well-bred  and  smiling  procedure  now 
it  has  become  a  request  for  a  loan  thrown  in  as 
an  easy  parenthesis  between  the  second  and 
third  glasses  of  claret. 

Still,   there   was   this  advantage  in   the  old, 


LINKS  239 

rigid  forms,  —  that  they  committed  you  to  the 
fulfilment  of  a  resolution  by  some  outward  deed. 
When  you  have  put  your  mouth  to  one  end  of 
a  hole  in  a  stone  wall,  and  are  aware  that  there 
is  an  expectant  ear  at  the  other  end,  you  are 
more  likely  to  say  what  you  came  out  with  the 
intention  of  saying,  than  if  you  were  seated 
with  your  legs  in  an  easy  attitude  under  the 
mahogany,  with  a  companion  who  will  have  no 
reason  to  be  surprised  if  you  have  nothing  par- 
ticular to  say. 

However,  Arthur  Donnithorne,  as  he  winds 
among  the  pleasant  lanes  on  horseback  in  the 
morning  sunshine,  has  a  sincere  determination 
to  open  his  heart  to  the  Rector;  and  the  swirl- 
ing sound  of  the  scythe  as  he  passes  by  the 
meadow  is  all  the  pleasanter  to  him  because  of 
this  honest  purpose.  He  is  glad  to  see  the 
promise  of  settled  weather  now,  for  getting  in 
the  hay,  about  wdiich  the  farmers  have  been 
fearful;  and  there  is  something  so  healthful  in 
the  sharing  of  a  joy  that  is  general  and  not 
merely  personal,  that  this  thought  about  the 
hay-harvest  reacts  on  his  state  of  mind,  and 
makes  his  resolution  seem  an  easier  matter. 
A  man  about  town  might  perhaps  consider  that 
these  influences  were  not  to  be  felt  out  of  a 
child's  story-book;  but  when  you  are  among 
the  fields  and  hedgerows,  it  is  impossible  to 
maintain  a  consistent  superiority  to  simple 
natural    pleasures. 

Arthur  had  passed  the  village  of  Hayslope, 
and  was  approaching  the  Broxton  side  of  the 
hill,  when,  at  a  turning  in  the  road,  he  saw  a 
figure  about  a  hundred  yards  before  him  which 


240  ADAM   BEDE 

it  was  impossible  to  mistake  for  any  one  else 
than  Adam  Bede,  even  if  there  had  been  no 
gray,  tailless  shepherd-dog  at  his  heels.  He 
was  striding  along  at  his  usual  rapid  pace;  and 
Arthur  pushed  on  his  horse  to  overtake  him,  for 
he  retained  too  much  of  his  boyish  feeling  for 
Adam  to  miss  an  opportunity  of  chatting  with 
him.  I  will  not  say  that  his  love  for  that  good 
fellow  did  not  owe  some  of  its  force  to  the  love 
of  patronage:  our  friend  Arthur  liked  to  do 
everything  that  was  handsome,  and  to  have  his 
handsome  deeds  recognized. 

Adam  looked  round  as  he  heard  the  quicken- 
ing clatter  of  the  horse's  heels,  and  waited  for 
the  horseman,  lifting  his  paper  cap  from  his 
head  with  a  bright  smile  of  recognition.  Next 
to  his  own  brother  Seth,  Adam  would  have  done 
more  for  Arthur  Donnithorne  than  for  any 
other  young  man  in  the  world.  There  was 
hardly  anything  he  would  not  rather  have  lost 
than  the  two-feet  ruler  which  he  always  carried 
in  his  pocket;  it  was  Ai'thur's  present,  bought 
with  his  pocket-money  when  he  was  a  fair- 
haired  lad  of  eleven,  and  when  he  had  profited 
so  well  by  Adam's  lessons  in  carpentering  and 
turning,  as  to  embarrass  every  female  in  the 
house  with  gifts  of  superfluous  thread-reels  and 
round  boxes.  Adam  had  quite  a  pride  in  the 
little  squire  in  those  early  days,  and  the  feeling 
had  only  become  slightly  modified  as  the  fair- 
haired  lad  had  grown  into  the  whiskered  young 
man.  Adam,  I  confess,  was  very  susceptible 
to  the  influence  of  rank,  and  quite  ready  to  give 
an  extra  amount  of  respect  to  every  one  who  had 
more    advantages    than    himself,    not    being    a 


LINKS  241 

philosopher,  or  a  proletaire  with  democratic 
ideas,  but  simply  a  stout-limbed,  clever  car- 
penter with  a  large  fund  of  reverence  in  his 
nature,  which  inclined  him  to  admit  all  estab- 
lished claims  unless  he  saw  very  clear  grounds 
for  questioning  them.  He  had  no  theories 
about  setting  the  world  to  rights,  but  he  saw 
there  was  a  great  deal  of  damage  done  by  build- 
ing with  ill- seasoned  timber,  —  by  ignorant 
men  in  fine  clothes  making  plans  for  outhouses 
and  workshops  and  the  like,  without  knowing 
the  bearings  of  things,  —  by  slovenly  joiners' 
work,  and  by  hasty  contracts  that  could  never 
be  fulfilled  without  ruining  somebody;  and  he 
resolved,  for  his  part,  to  set  his  face  against 
such  doings.  On  these  points  he  would  have 
maintained  his  opinion  against  the  largest 
landed  proprietor  in  Loamshire  or  Stonyshire 
either;  but  he  felt  that  beyond  these  it  would 
be  better  for  him  to  defer  to  people  who  were 
more  knowing  than  himself.  He  saw  as  plainly 
as  possible  how  ill  the  woods  on  the  estate  were 
managed,  and  the  shameful  state  of  the  farm- 
buildings;  and  if  old  Squire  Donnithorne  had 
asked  him  the  effect  of  this  mismanagement, 
he  would  have  spoken  his  opinion  without 
flinching,  but  the  impulse  to  a  respectful  de- 
meanour towards  a  "gentleman"  would  have 
been  strong  within  him  all  the  while.  The 
word  "gentleman"  had  a  spell  for  Adam,  and, 
as  he  often  said,  he  "could  n't  abide  a  fellow 
who  thought  he  made  himself  fine  by  being 
coxy  to  's  betters."  I  must  remind  you  again 
that  Adam  had  the  blood  of  the  peasant  in  his 
veins,  and  that  since  he  was  in  his  prime  half 

VOL.  I —  16 


U2  ADAM  BEDE 

a  century  ago,  you  must  expect  some  of  his 
characteristics  to  be  obsolete. 

Towards  the  young  squire  this  instinctive 
reverence  of  Adam's  was  assisted  by  boyish 
memories  and  personal  regard;  so  you  may 
imagine  that  he  thought  far  more  of  Arthur's 
good  qualities,  and  attached  far  more  value  to 
very  slight  actions  of  his,  than  if  they  had  been 
the  qualities  and  actions  of  a  common  work- 
man like  himself.  He  felt  sure  it  would  be  a 
fine  day  for  everybody  about  Hayslope  when 
the  young  squire  came  into  the  estate,  —  such 
a  generous,  open-hearted  disposition  as  he  had, 
and  an  "uncommon"  notion  about  improve- 
ments and  repairs,  considering  he  was  only  just 
coming  of  age.  Thus  there  was  both  respect 
and  affection  in  the  smile  with  which  he  raised 
his  paper  cap  as  Arthur  Donnithorne  rode  up. 

"Well,  Adam,  how  are  you.-^"  said  Arthur, 
holding  out  his  hand.  He  never  shook  hands 
with  any  of  the  farmers,  and  Adam  felt  the 
honour  keenly.  "I  could  swear  to  your  back 
a  long  way  off.  It's  just  the  same  back,  only 
broader,  as  when  you  used  to  carry  me  on  it. 
Do  you  remember.^" 

"  Ay,  sir,  I  remember.  It  'ud  be  a  poor  look- 
out if  folks  did  n't  remember  what  they  did  and 
said  when  they  were  lads.  We  should  think 
no  more  about  old  friends  than  we  do  about  new 
uns,  then." 

"You're  going  to  Broxton,  I  suppose.^"  said 
Arthur,  putting  his  horse  on  at  a  slow  pace  while 
Adam  walked  by  his  side.  "Are  you  going  to 
the   Rectory.^" 

"No,  sir,  I'm  going  to  see  about  Bradwell's 


LINKS  243 

barn.  They're  afraid  of  the  roof  pushing  the 
walls  out;  and  I'm  going  to  see  what  can  be 
done  with  it  before  we  send  the  stuff  and  the 
workmen." 

"  Why,  Burge  trusts  almost  everything  to  you 
now,  Adam,  does  n't  he  ?  I  should  think  he 
will  make  you  his  partner  soon.  He  will,  if 
he  s  wise. 

"Nay,  sir,  I  don't  see  as  he'd  be  much  the 
better  off  for  that.  A  foreman,  if  he's  got  a 
conscience,  and  delights  in  his  work,  will  do 
his  business  as  well  as  if  he  was  a  partner.  I 
would  n't  give  a  penny  for  a  man  as  'ud  drive 
a  nail  in  slack  because  he  did  n't  get  extra  pay 
for  it." 

"I  know  that,  Adam;  I  know  you  work  for 
him  as  well  as  if  you  were  working  for  yourself. 
But  you  would  have  more  power  than  you  have 
now,  and  could  turn  the  business  to  better  ac- 
count perhaps.  The  old  man  must  give  up  his 
business  sometime,  and  he  has  no  son;  I  sup- 
pose he'll  want  a  son-in-law  who  can  take  to  it. 
But  he  has  rather  grasping  fingers  of  his  own, 
I  fancy;  I  dare  say  he  wants  a  man  who  can 
put  some  money  into  the  business.  If  I  were 
not  as  poor  as  a  rat,  I  would  gladly  invest  some 
money  in  that  way,  for  the  sake  of  having  you 
settled  on  the  estate.  I'm  sure  I  should  profit 
by  it  in  the  end.  And  perhaps  I  shall  be  better 
off  in  a  year  or  two.  I  shall  have  a  larger  allow- 
ance now  I'm  of  age;  and  when  I've  paid  off 
a  debt  or  two,  I  shall  be  able  to  look  about 
me. 

"You're  very  good  to  say  so,  sir,  and  I'm  not 
unthankful.     But,"  Adam  continued,  in  a  de- 


244  ADAM  BEDE 

cided  tone,  "I  should  n't  like  to  make  any  offers 
to  Mr.  Burge,  or  t'  have  any  made  for  me.  I 
see  no  clear  road  to  a  partnership.  If  he  should 
ever  want  to  dispose  of  the  business,  that  'ud  be 
a  different  matter.  I  should  be  glad  of  some 
money  at  a  fair  interest  then,  for  I  feel  sure  I 
could  pay  it  oft'  in  time." 

"Very  well,  Adam,"  said  Arthur,  remember- 
ing what  Mr.  Irwine  had  said  about  a  probable 
hitch  in  the  love-making  between  Adam  and 
Mary  Burge,  "we'll  say  no  more  about  it  at 
present.     When  is  your  father  to  be  buried  .^" 

"On  Sunday,  sir;  Mr.  Irwine 's  coming 
earlier  on  purpose.  I  shall  be  glad  when  it's 
over,  for  I  think  my  mother  'uU  perhaps  get 
easier  then.  It  cuts  one  sadly  to  see  the  grief 
of  old  people;  they've  no  way  o'  working  it  off, 
and  the  new  spring  brings  no  new  shoots  out  on 
the  withered  tree." 

"Ah,  you've  had  a  good  deal  of  trouble  and 
vexation  in  your  life,  Adam.  I  don't  think 
you've  ever  been  harebrained  and  light-hearted, 
like  other  youngsters.  You've  always  had 
some  care  on  your  mind." 

"Why,  yes,  sir;  but  that's  nothing  to  make 
a  fuss  about.  If  we're  men,  and  have  men's 
feelings,  I  reckon  we  must  have  men's  troubles. 
We  can't  be  like  the  birds,  as  fly  from  their  nest 
as  soon  as  they've  got  their  wings,  and  never 
know  their  kin  when  they  see  'em,  and  get  a 
fresh  lot  every  year.  I've  had  enough  to  be 
thankful  for:  I've  allays  had  health  and 
strength  and  brains  to  give  me  a  delight  in  my 
work;  and  I  count  it  a  great  thing  as  I've  had 
Bartle   Massey's   night-school  to  go   to.     He's 


LINKS  245 

helped  me  to  knowledge  I  could  never  ha'  got 
by  myself." 

"What  a  rare  fellow  you  are,  Adam!"  said 
Arthur,  after  a  pause,  in  which  he  had  looked 
musingly  at  the  big  fellow  walking  by  his  side. 
"I  could  hit  out  better  than  most  men  at  Ox- 
ford, and  yet  I  believe  you  would  knock  me  into 
next  w^eek  if  I  were  to  have  a  battle  with  you." 

"God  forbid  I  should  ever  do  that,  sir!" 
said  Adam,  looking  round  at  Arthur,  and  smil- 
ing. "I  used  to  fight  for  fun;  but  I've  never 
done  that  since  I  was  the  cause  o'  poor  Gil 
Tranter  being  laid  up  for  a  fortnight.  I'll 
never  fight  any  man  again,  only  when  he  be- 
haves like  a  scoundrel.  If  you  get  hold  of  a 
chap  that's  got  no  shame  nor  conscience  to  stop 
him,  you  must  try  what  you  can  do  by  bunging 
his  eyes  up." 

Arthur  did  not  laugh,  for  he  was  preoccu- 
pied with  some  thought  that  made  him  say 
presently,  — 

"I  should  think  now,  Adam,  you  never  have 
any  struggles  within  yourself.  I  fancy  you 
would  master  a  wish  that  you  had  made  up  your 
mind  it  was  not  quite  right  to  indulge,  as  easily 
as  you  would  knock  down  a  drunken  fellow  who 
was  quarrelsome  with  you.  I  mean,  you  are 
never  shilly-shally,  —  first  making  up  your 
mind  that  you  won't  do  a  thing,  and  then  doing 
it  after  all  ? ' ' 

"Well,"  said  Adam,  slowly,  after  a  moment's 
hesitation,  —  "no.  I  don't  remember  ever  be- 
ing see-saw  in  that  w^ay,  when  I'd  made  my 
mind  up,  as  you  say,  that  a  thing  was  wrong. 
It  takes  the  taste  out  o'  my  mouth  for  things. 


U6  ADAM   BEDE 

when  I  know  I  should  have  a  heavy  conscience 
after  'em.  I've  seen  pretty  clear,  ever  since  I 
could  cast  up  a  sum,  as  you  can  never  do  what's 
wrong  without  breeding  sin  and  trouble  more 
than  you  can  ever  see.  It's  like  a  bit  o'  bad 
workmanship,  —  you  never  see  th'  end  o'  the 
mischief  it'll  do.  And  it's  a  poor  lookout  to 
come  into  the  world  to  make  your  fellow- 
creatures  worse  off  instead  o'  better.  But 
there's  a  difference  between  the  things  folks 
call  \\Tong.  I'm  not  for  making  a  sin  of  every 
little  fool's  trick,  or  bit  o'  nonsense  anybody 
may  be  let  into,  like  some  o'  them  dissenters. 
And  a  man  may  have  two  minds,  whether  it 
is  n't  worth  while  to  get  a  bruise  or  two  for  the 
sake  of  a  bit  o'  fun.  But  it  is  n't  my  way  to  be 
see-saw  about  anything;  I  think  my  fault  lies 
th'  other  way.  When  I've  said  a  thing,  if  it's 
only  to  myself,  it's  hard  for  me  to  go  back." 

"Yes,  that's  just  what  I  expected  of  you," 
said  Arthur.  "You've  got  an  iron  will,  as  well 
as  an  iron  arm.  But  however  strong  a  man's 
resolution  may  be,  it  costs  him  something  to 
carry  it  out,  now  and  then.  We  may  deter- 
mine not  to  gather  any  cherries,  and  keep  our 
hands  sturdily  in  our  pockets,  but  we  can't 
prevent  our  mouths  from  watering." 

"That's  true,  sir;  but  there's  nothing  like 
settling  with  ourselves  as  there's  a  deal  we  must 
do  without  i'  this  life.  It's  no  use  looking  on 
life  as  if  it  was  Treddles'on  fair,  where  folks 
only  go  to  see  shows  and  get  fairings.  If  we 
do,  we  shall  find  it  different.  But  where 's  the 
use  o'  me  talking  to  you,  sir  ?  You  know  better 
than  I  do." 


LINKS  247 

"I'm  not  so  sure  of  that,  Adam.  You've 
had  four  or  five  years  of  experience  more  than 
I've  had,  and  I  think  your  Hfe  has  been  a  better 
school  to  you  than  college  has  been  to  me." 

*'  Why,  sir,  you  seem  to  think  o'  college  some- 
thing like  what  Bartle  Massey  does.  He  says 
college  mostly  makes  people  like  bladders,  — 
just  good  for  nothing  but  t'  hold  the  stuff  as  is 
poured  into  'em.  But  he's  got  a  tongue  like  a 
sharp  blade,  Bartle  has;  it  never  touches  any- 
thing but  it  cuts.  Here's  the  turning,  sir.  I 
must  bid  you  good- morning,  as  you're  going  to 
the  Rectory." 

"Good-by,  Adam,  good-by." 

Arthur  gave  his  horse  to  the  groom  at  the 
Rectory  gate,  and  walked  along  the  gravel 
towards  the  door  which  opened  on  the  garden. 
He  knew  that  the  Rector  always  breakfasted 
in  his  study;  and  the  study  lay  on  the  left  hand 
of  this  door,  opposite  the  dining-room.  It  was 
a  small  low  room,  belonging  to  the  old  part  of 
the  house,  —  dark  with  the  sombre  covers  of 
the  books  that  lined  the  walls;  yet  it  looked 
very  cheery  this  morning  as  Arthur  reached  the 
open  window.  For  the  morning  sun  fell  aslant 
on  the  great  glass  globe  with  gold-fish  in  it, 
which  stood  on  a  scagliola  pillar  in  front  of  the 
ready- spread  bachelor  breakfast- table,  and  by 
the  side  of  this  breakfast- table  was  a  group 
which  would  have  made  any  room  enticing.  In 
the  crimson  damask  easy-chair  sat  Mr.  Irwine, 
with  that  radiant  freshness  which  he  always  had 
when  he  came  from  his  morning  toilet;  his 
finely  formed  plump  white  hand  was  playing 
along  Juno's  brown  curly  back;    and  close  to 


248  ADAM   BEDE 

Juno's  tail,  which  was  wagging  with  calm 
matronly  pleasure,  the  two  brown  pups  were 
rolling  over  each  other  in  an  ecstatic  duet  of 
worrying  noises.  On  a  cushion  a  little  removed 
sat  Pug,  with  the  air  of  a  maiden  lady,  who 
looked  on  these  familiarities  as  animal  weak- 
nesses, which  she  made  as  little  show  as  possi- 
ble of  observing.  On  the  table,  at  Mr.  Ir- 
wine's  elbow,  lay  the  first  volume  of  the  Foulis 
^schylus,  which  Arthur  knew  well  by  sight; 
and  the  silver  coffee-pot,  which  Carroll  was 
bringing  in,  sent  forth  a  fragrant  steam  which 
completed  the  delights  of  a  bachelor  breakfast. 

"Hallo,  Arthur,  that's  a  good  fellow! 
You're  just  in  time,"  said  Mr.  Irwine,  as  Arthur 
paused  and  stepped  in  over  the  low  window-sill. 
"Carroll,  we  shall  want  more  coffee  and  eggs, 
and  have  n't  you  got  some  cold  fowl  for  us  to 
eat  with  that  ham  ?  Why,  this  is  like  old  days, 
Arthur;  you  have  n't  been  to  breakfast  with 
me  these  five  years." 

"  It  was  a  tempting  morning  for  a  ride  before 
breakfast,"  said  Arthur;  "and  I  used  to  like 
breakfasting  with  you  so  when  I  was  reading 
with  you.  My  grandfather  is  always  a  few  de- 
grees colder  at  breakfast  than  at  any  other  hour 
in  the  day.  I  think  his  morning  bath  does  n't 
agree  with  him." 

Arthur  was  anxious  not  to  imply  that  he  came 
with  any  special  purpose.  He  had  no  sooner 
found  himself  in  Mr.  Irwine's  presence  than  the 
confidence  which  he  had  thought  quite  easy  be- 
fore, suddenly  appeared  the  most  difficult  thing 
in  the  world  to  him,  and  at  the  very  moment  of 
shaking  hands  he  saw  his  purpose  in  quite  a  new 


LINKS  249 

light.  How  could  he  make  Irwine  understand 
his  position  unless  he  told  him  those  little  scenes 
in  the  wood;  and  how  could  he  tell  them  with- 
out looking  like  a  fool  ?  And  then  his  weakness 
in  coming  back  from  Gawaine's,  and  doing  the 
very  opposite  of  what  he  intended!  Irwine 
would  think  him  a  shilly-shally  fellow  ever  after. 
However,  it  must  come  out  in  an  unpremedi- 
tated way ;  the  conversation  might  lead  up  to  it. 

"I  like  breakfast- time  better  than  any  other 
moment  in  the  day,"  said  Mr.  Irwine.  "No 
dust  has  settled  on  one's  mind  then,  and  it  pre- 
sents a  clear  mirror  to  the  rays  of  things.  I 
always  have  a  favourite  book  by  me  at  break- 
fast, and  I  enjoy  the  bits  I  pick  up  then  so  much 
that  regularly  every  morning  it  seems  to  me 
as  if  I  should  certainly  become  studious  again. 
But  presently  Dent  brings  up  a  poor  fellow  who 
has  killed  a  hare,  and  when  I've  got  through 
my  'justicing,'  as  Carroll  calls  it,  I'm  inclined 
for  a  ride  round  the  glebe,  and  on  my  way  back 
I  meet  with  the  master  of  the  workhouse,  who 
has  got  a  long  story  of  a  mutinous  pauper  to  tell 
me;  and  so  the  day  goes  on,  and  I'm  always  the 
same  lazy  fellow  before  evening  sets  in.  Be- 
sides, one  wants  the  stimulus  of  sympathy,  and 
I  have  never  had  that  since  poor  D'Oyley  left 
Treddleston.  If  you  had  stuck  to  your  books 
well,  you  rascal,  I  should  have  had  a  pleasanter 
prospect  before  me;  but  scholarship  does  n't 
run  in  your  family  blood." 

"No,  indeed.  It's  well  if  I  can  remember 
a  little  inapplicable  Latin  to  adorn  my  maiden 
speech  in  Parliament  six  or  seven  years  hence. 
*Cras    ingens    iterabimus    sequor,'    and    a   few 


250  ADAM   BEDE 

shreds  of  that  sort,  will  perhaps  stick  to  me, 
and  I  shall  arrange  my  opinions  so  as  to  intro- 
duce them.  But  I  don't  think  a  knowledge  of 
the  classics  is  a  pressing  want  to  a  country  gen- 
tleman; as  far  as  I  can  see,  he'd  much  better 
have  a  knowledge  of  manures.  I've  been  read- 
ing your  friend  Arthur  Young's  books  lately, 
and  there's  nothing  I  should  like  better  than  to 
carry  out  some  of  his  ideas  in  putting  the  farmers 
on  a  better  luanagement  of  their  land;  and,  as 
he  says,  making  what  was  a  wild  country,  all 
of  the  same  dark  hue,  bright  and  variegated 
with  corn  and  cattle.  My  grandfather  will 
never  let  me  have  any  power  while  he  lives ;  but 
there's  nothing  I  should  like  better  than  to  un- 
dertake the  Stonyshire  side  of  the  estate,  —  it's 
in  a  dismal  condition,  —  and  set  improvements 
on  foot,  and  gallop  about  from  one  place  to  an- 
other and  overlook  them.  I  should  like  to 
know  all  the  labourers,  and  see  them  touching 
their  hats  to  me  with  a  look  of  good-will." 

"Bravo,  Arthur!  A  man  who  has  no  feeling 
for  the  classics  could  n't  make  a  better  apology 
for  coming  into  the  world  than  by  increasing 
the  quantity  of  food  to  maintain  scholars,  — 
and  rectors  who  appreciate  scholars.  x\nd 
whenever  you  enter  on  your  career  of  model 
landlord  may  I  be  there  to  see!  You'll  want 
a  portly  rector  to  complete  the  picture,  and  take 
his  tithe  of  all  the  respect  and  honour  you  get 
by  your  hard  work.  Only  don't  set  your  heart 
too  strongly  on  the  good- will  you  are  to  get  in 
consequence.  I'm  not  sure  that  men  are  the 
fondest  of  those  who  try  to  be  useful  to  them. 
You  know  Gawaine  has  got  the  curses  of  the 


LINKS  251 

whole  neighbourhood  upon  him  about  that  en- 
closure.    You  must  make  it  quite  clear  to  your 
mind  which  you  are  most  bent  upon,  old  boy, 
—  popularity    or    usefulness,  —  else    you    may 
happen  to  miss  both." 

"Oh!  Gawaine  is  harsh  in  his  manners;  he 
does  n't  make  himself  personally  agreeable  to 
his  tenants.  I  don't  believe  there's  anything 
you  can't  prevail  on  people  to  do  with  kindness. 
For  my  part,  I  could  n't  live  in  a  neighbour- 
hood where  I  w^as  not  respected  and  beloved; 
and  it's  very  pleasant  to  go  among  the  tenants 
here,  they  seem  all  so  well  inclined  to  me.  I 
suppose  it  seems  only  the  other  day  to  them 
since  I  was  a  little  lad,  riding  on  a  pony  about 
as  big  as  a  sheep.  And  if  fair  allowances  were 
made  to  them,  and  their  buildings  attended  to, 
one  could  persuade  them  to  farm  on  a  better 
plan,  stupid  as  they  are." 

"  Then  mind  you  fall  in  love  in  the  right  place, 
and  don't  get  a  wife  who  will  drain  your  purse 
and  make  you  niggardly  in  spite  of  yourself. 
My  mother  and  I  have  a  little  discussion  about 
you  sometimes.  She  says,  'I'll  never  risk  a  sin- 
gle prophecy  on  Arthur  until  I  see  the  w^oman 
he  falls  in  love  with.'  She  thinks  your  lady- 
love will  rule  you  as  the  moon  rules  the  tides. 
But  I  feel  bound  to  stand  up  for  you,  as  my 
pupil,  you  know;  and  I  maintain  that  you're 
not  of  that  watery  quality.  So  mind  you  don't 
disgrace  my  judgment." 

Arthur  winced  under  this  speech,  for  keen  old 
Mrs.  Irwine's  opinion  about  him  had  the  dis- 
agreeable effect  of  a  sinister  omen.  This,  to 
be  sure,  was  only  another  reason  for  persever- 


252  ADAM   BEDE 

ing  In  his  Intention  and  getting  an  additional 
security  against  himself.  Nevertheless,  at  this 
point  in  the  conversation  he  was  conscious  of 
increased  disinclination  to  tell  his  story  about 
Hetty.  He  was  of  an  impressible  nature,  and 
lived  a  great  deal  in  other  people's  opinions  and 
feelings  concerning  himself;  and  the  mere  fact 
that  he  was  in  the  presence  of  an  intimate  friend, 
who  had  not  the  slightest  notion  that  he  had  had 
any  such  serious  internal  struggle  as  he  came 
to  confide,  rather  shook  his  own  belief  in  the 
seriousness  of  the  struggle.  It  was  not,  after 
all,  a  thing  to  make  a  fuss  about;  and  what 
could  Irwine  do  for  him  that  he  could  not  do  for 
himself.'^  He  would  go  to  Eagledale  in  spite 
of  Meg's  lameness,  —  go  on  Rattler,  and  let 
Pym  follow  as  well  as  he  could  on  the  old  hack. 
That  was  his  thought  as  he  sugared  his  coffee; 
but  the  next  minute,  as  he  was  lifting  the  cup 
to  his  lips,  he  remembered  how  thoroughly  he 
had  made  up  his  mind  last  night  to  tell  Irwine. 
No!  he  would  not  be  vacillating  again,  —  he 
would  do  what  he  had  meant  to  do,  this  time. 
So  it  would  be  well  not  to  let  the  personal  tone 
of  the  conversation  altogether  drop.  If  they 
went  to  quite  indiiferent  topics,  his  difficulty 
would  be  heightened.  It  had  required  no  no- 
ticeable pause  for  this  rush  and  rebound  of  feel- 
ing, before  he  answered,  — 

"But  I  think  it  is  hardly  an  argument  against 
a  man's  general  strength  of  character,  that  he 
should  be  apt  to  be  mastered  by  love.  A  fine 
constitution  does  n't  insure  one  against  small- 
pox or  any  other  of  those  inevitable  diseases. 
A    man    may  be   very  firm    in  other  matters. 


LINKS  253 

and  yet  be  under  a  sort  of  witchery  from  a 
woman." 

"  Yes;  but  there's  this  difference  between  love 
and  small- pox,  or  bewitchment  either,  —  that 
if  you  detect  the  disease  at  an  early  stage,  and 
try  change  of  air,  there  is  every  chance  of  com- 
plete escape  without  any  further  development 
of  symptoms.  And  there  are  certain  alterative 
doses  which  a  man  may  administer  to  himself 
by  keeping  unpleasant  consequences  before  his 
mind:  this  gives  you  a  sort  of  smoked  glass 
through  which  you  may  look  at  the  resplendent 
fair  one  and  discern  her  true  outline;  though 
I'm  afraid,  by  the  by,  the  smoked  glass  is  apt 
to  be  missing  just  at  the  moment  it  is  most 
wanted.  I  dare  say,  now,  even  a  man  fortified 
with  a  knowledge  of  the  classics  might  be  lured 
into  an  imprudent  marriage,  in  spite  of  the 
warning  given  him  by  the  chorus  in  the 
Prometheus." 

The  smile  that  flitted  across  Ajthur's  face  was 
a  faint  one,  and  instead  of  following  Mr.  Irwine's 
playful  lead,  he  said  quite  seriously:  "Yes, 
that 's  the  worst  of  it.  It 's  a  desperately  vexa- 
tious thing,  that  after  all  one's  reflections  and 
quiet  determinations,  we  should  be  ruled  by 
moods  that  one  can't  calculate  on  beforehand. 
I  don't  think  a  man  ought  to  be  blamed  so  much 
if  he  is  betrayed  into  doing  things  in  that  way, 
in  spite  of  his  resolutions." 

"Ah,  but  the  moods  lie  in  his  nature,  my  boy, 
just  as  much  as  his  reflections  did,  and  more. 
A  man  can  never  do  anything  at  variance  with 
his  own  nature.  He  carries  within  him  the 
germ  of  his  most  exceptional  action;  and  if  we 


254  ADAM   BEDE 

wise  people  make  eminent  fools  of  ourselves  on 
any  particular  occasion,  we  must  endure  the 
legitimate  conclusion  that  we  carry  a  few  grains 
of  folly  to  our  ounce  of  wisdom." 

"Well,  but  one  may  be  betrayed  into  doing 
things  by  a  combination  of  circumstances,  which 
one  might  never  have  done  otherwise." 

"Why,  yes,  a  man  can't  very  well  steal  a 
bank-note  unless  the  bank-note  lies  within  con- 
venient reach;  but  he  won't  make  us  think  him 
an  honest  man  because  he  begins  to  howl  at  the 
bank-note  for  falling  in  his  way." 

"But  surely  you  don't  think  a  man  who 
struggles  against  a  temptation  into  which  he 
falls  at  last,  as  bad  as  the  man  who  never 
struggles  at  all  .^" 

"No,  certainly;  I  pity  him  in  proportion  to 
his  struggles,  for  they  foreshadow  the  inward 
suffering  which  is  the  worst  form  of  Nemesis. 
Consequences  are  unpitying.  Our  deeds  carry 
their  terrible  consequences,  quite  apart  from 
any  fluctuations  that  went  before,  —  conse- 
quences that  are  hardly  ever  confined  to  our- 
selves; and  it  is  best  to  fix  our  minds  on  that 
certainty,  instead  of  considering  what  may  be 
the  elements  of  excuse  for  us.  But  I  never 
knew  you  so  inclined  for  moral  discussion, 
Arthur  ?  Is  it  some  danger  of  your  own  that 
you  are  considering  in  this  philosophical,  general 
way  : 

In  asking  this  question,  Mr.  Irwine  pushed 
his  plate  away,  threw  himself  back  in  his  chair, 
and  looked  straight  at  Arthur.  He  really  sus- 
pected that  Arthur  wanted  to  tell  him  some- 
thing, and  thought  of  smoothing  the  way  for 


LINKS  255 

him  by  this  direct  question.  But  he  was  mis- 
taken. Brought  suddenly  and  involuntarily  to 
the  brink  of  confession,  Arthur  shrank  back, 
and  felt  less  disposed  towards  it  than  ever.  The 
conversation  had  taken  a  more  serious  tone  than 
he  had  intended ;  it  would  quite  mislead  Irwine, 
—  he  would  imagine  there  was  a  deep  passion 
for  Hetty,  while  there  was  no  such  thing.  He 
was  conscious  of  colouring,  and  was  annoyed 
at  his  boyishness. 

"Oh,  no,  no  danger,"  he  said  as  indifferently 
as  he  could.  "I  don't  know  that  I  am  more 
liable  to  irresolution  than  other  people;  only 
there  are  little  incidents  now  and  then  that  set 
one  speculating  on  what  might  happen  in  the 
future." 

Was  there  a  motive  at  work  under  this  strange 
reluctance  of  Arthur's  which  had  a  sort  of  back- 
stairs influence,  not  admitted  to  himself  ?  Our 
mental  business  is  carried  on  much  in  the  same 
way  as  the  business  of  the  State:  a  great  deal 
of  hard  work  is  done  by  agents  who  are  not 
acknowledged.  In  a  piece  of  machinery,  too, 
I  believe  there  is  often  a  small  unnoticeable 
wheel  which  has  a  great  deal  to  do  with  the 
motion  of  the  large  obvious  ones.  Possibly 
there  was  some  such  unrecognized  agent  secretly 
busy  in  Arthur's  mind  at  this  moment;  possi- 
bly it  was  the  fear  lest  he  might  hereafter  find 
the  fact  of  having  made  a  confession  to  the 
Rector  a  serious  annoyance,  in  case  he  should 
not  be  able  quite  to  carry  out  his  good  resolu- 
tions ?  I  dare  not  assert  that  it  was  not  so. 
The  human  soul  is  a  very  complex  thing. 

The    idea    of   Hetty    had    just   crossed   Mr. 


256  ADAM   BEDE 

Irwine's  mind  as  he  looked  inquiringly  at  Arthur; 
but  his  disclaiming,  indifferent  answer  confirmed 
the  thought  which  had  quickly  followed,  — 
that  there  could  be  nothing  serious  in  that 
direction.  There  was  no  probability  that 
Arthur  ever  saw  her  except  at  church,  and  at 
her  own  home  under  the  eye  of  Mrs.  Poyser; 
and  the  hint  he  had  given  Arthur  about  her 
the  other  day  had  no  more  serious  meaning 
than  to  prevent  him  from  noticing  her  so  as  to 
rouse  the  little  chit's  vanity,  and  in  this  way 
perturb  the  rustic  drama  of  her  life.  Arthur 
would  soon  join  his  regiment,  and  be  far  away: 
no,  there  could  be  no  danger  in  that  quarter, 
even  if  Arthur's  character  had  not  been  a 
strong  security  against  it.  His  honest,  patroniz- 
ing pride  in  the  good- will  and  respect  of  every- 
body about  him  was  a  safeguard  even  against 
foolish  romance,  still  more  against  a  lower  kind 
of  folly.  If  there  had  been  anything  special  on 
Arthur's  mind  in  the  previous  conversation,  it 
was  clear  he  was  not  inclined  to  enter  into 
details,  and  Mr.  Irwine  was  too  delicate  to 
imply  even  a  friendly  curiosity.  He  perceived 
a  change  of  subject  would  be  w^elcome,  and 
said,  — 

"  By  the  way,  Arthur,  at  your  colonel's  birth- 
day jHe  there  were  some  transparencies  that 
made  a  great  effect  in  honour  of  Britannia,  and 
Pitt,  and  the  Loamshire  Militia,  and  above  all, 
the  'generous  youth,'  the  hero  of  the  day. 
Don't  you  think  you  should  get  up  something 
of  the  same  sort  to  astonish  our  weak  minds.?" 

The  opportunity  was  gone.  While  Arthur 
was  hesitating,  the  rope  to  which  he  might  have 


LINKS  257 

clung  had  drifted  away,  —  he  must  trust  now 
to  his  own  swimming. 

In  ten  minutes  from  that  time  Mr.  Irwine 
was  called  for  on  business;  and  Arthur,  bid- 
ding him  good- by,  mounted  his  horse  again 
with  a  sense  of  dissatisfaction,  which  he  tried 
to  quell  by  determining  to  set  off  for  Eagledale 
without  an  hour's  delay. 


VOL.  1—17 


Boofe  tIDtoo 


CHAPTER  I 

IN    WHICH    THE    STORY    PAUSES   A    LITTLE 

THIS  Rector  of  Broxton  is  little  better 
than  a  pagan!"  I  hear  one  of  my 
readers  exclaim.  "How  much  more 
edifying  it  would  have  been  if  you  had  made 
him  give  Arthur  some  truly  spiritual  advice! 
You  might  have  put  into  his  mouth  the  most 
beautiful  things,  —  quite  as  good  as  reading  a 
sermon." 

Certainly  I  could,  if  I  held  it  the  highest 
vocation  of  the  novelist  to  represent  things  as 
they  never  have  been  and  never  will  be.  Then, 
of  course,  I  might  refashion  life  and  character 
entirely  after  my  own  liking;  I  might  select  the 
most  unexceptionable  type  of  clergyman,  and  put 
my  own  admirable  opinions  into  his  mouth  on 
all  occasions.  But  it  happens,  on  the  contrary, 
that  my  strongest  effort  is  to  avoid  any  such 
arbitrary  picture,  and  to  give  a  faithful  account 
of  men  and  things  as  they  have  mirrored  them- 
selves in  my  mind.  The  mirror  is  doubtless 
defective;  the  outlines  will  sometimes  be  dis- 
turbed, the  reflection  faint  or  confused;  but  I 
feel  as  much  bound  to  tell  you  as  precisely  as 
I    can  what   that   reflection   is,  as  if  I  were  in 


THE   STORY   PAUSES   A   LITTLE   259 

the  witness-box  narrating  my  experience  on 
oath. 

Sixty  years  ago  —  it  is  a  long  time,  so  no 
wonder  things  have  changed  —  all  clergymen 
were  not  zealous;  indeed  there  is  reason  to  be- 
lieve that  the  number  of  zealous  clergymen  was 
small,  and  it  is  probable  that  if  one  among  the 
small  minority  had  owned  the  livings  of  Broxton 
and  Hayslope  in  the  year  1799,  you  would  have 
liked  him  no  better  than  you  like  Mr.  Irwine. 
Ten  to  one,  you  would  have  thought  him  a  taste- 
less, indiscreet,  methodistical  man.  It  is  so  very 
rarely  that  facts  hit  that  nice  medium  required 
by  our  own  enlightened  opinions  and  refined 
taste!  Perhaps  you  will  say,  "Do  improve  the 
facts  a  little,  then;  make  them  more  accordant 
with  those  correct  views  which  it  is  our  privi- 
lege to  possess.  The  world  is  not  just  what  we 
like;  do  touch  it  up  with  a  tasteful  pencil,  and 
make  believe  it  is  not  quite  such  a  mixed,  en- 
tangled affair.  Let  all  people  who  hold  unex- 
ceptionable opinions  act  unexceptionably.  Let 
your  most  faulty  characters  always  be  on  the 
wrong  side,  and  your  virtuous  ones  on  the  right. 
Then  we  shall  see  at  a  glance  whom  we  are  to 
condemn,  and  whom  we  are  to  approve.  Then 
we  shall  be  able  to  admire,  without  the  slightest 
disturbance  of  our  prepossessions;  we  shall  hate 
and  despise  with  that  true  ruminant  relish  which 
belongs  to  undoubtinjj  confidence." 

But,  my  good  friend,  what  will  you  do  then 
with  your  fellow- parishioner  who  opposes  your 
husband  in  the  vestry  ?  —  with  your  newly  ap- 
pointed vicar,  whose  style  of  preaching  you  find 
painfully   below   that   of   his   regretted   prede- 


260  ADAM  BEDE 

cessor  ?  —  with  the  honest  servant  who  worries 
your  soul  with  her  one  f aiUng  ?  —  with  your 
neighbour,  Mrs.  Green,  who  was  really  kind  to 
you  in  your  last  illness,  but  has  said  several 
ill-natured  things  about  you  since  your  convales- 
cence ?  —  nay,  with  your  excellent  husband  him- 
self, who  has  other  irritating  habits  besides  that 
of  not  wiping  his  shoes  ?  These  fellow- mortals, 
every  one,  must  be  accepted  as  they  are,  —  you 
can  neither  straighten  their  noses,  nor  brighten 
their  wit,  nor  rectify  their  dispositions;  and  it 
is  these  people  —  amongst  whom  your  life  is 
passed  —  that  it  is  needful  you  should  tolerate, 
pity,  and  love;  it  is  these  more  or  less  ugly, 
stupid,  inconsistent  people,  whose  movements 
of  goodness  you  should  be  able  to  admire,  for 
whom  you  should  cherish  all  possible  hopes,  all 
possible  patience.  And  I  would  not,  even  if  I 
had  the  choice,  be  the  clever  novelist  who  could 
create  a  world  so  much  better  than  this,  in  which 
we  get  up  in  the  morning  to  do  our  daily  work, 
that  you  would  be  likely  to  turn  a  harder,  colder 
eye  on  the  dusty  streets  and  the  common  green 
fields,  —  on  the  real  breathing  men  and  women, 
who  can  be  chilled  by  your  indifference  or  in- 
jured by  your  prejudice;  who  can  be  cheered 
and  helped  onward  by  your  fellow-feeling,  your 
forbearance,  your  outspoken,  brave  justice. 

So  I  am  content  to  tell  my  simple  story,  with- 
out trying  to  make  things  seem  better  than  they 
were;  dreading  nothing,  indeed,  but  falsity, 
which,  in  spite  of  one's  best  efforts,  there  is  rea- 
son to  dread.  Falsehood  is  so  easy,  truth  so 
difficult.  The  pencil  is  conscious  of  a  delight- 
h^\  facility  in  drawing  a  griffin,  —  the  longer  the 


THE   STORY  PAUSES  A   LITTLE  261 

claws,  and  the  larger  the  wings,  the  better;  but 
that  marvellous  facility  which  we  mistook  for 
genius  is  apt  to  forsake  us  when  we  want  to 
draw  a  real,  unexaggerated  lion.  Examine 
your  words  well,  and  you  will  find  that  even 
when  you  have  no  motive  to  be  false,  it  is  a  very 
hard  thing  to  say  the  exact  truth,  even  about 
your  own  immediate  feelings,  —  much  harder 
than  to  say  something  fine  about  them  which 
is  not  the  exact  truth. 

It  is  for  this  rare,  precious  quality  of  truth- 
fulness that  I  delight  in  many  Dutch  paintings, 
which  lofty-minded  people  despise.  I  find  a 
source  of  delicious  sympathy  in  these  faithful 
pictures  of  a  monotonous,  homely  existence, 
which  has  been  the  fate  of  so  many  more  among 
my  fellow-mortals  than  a  life  of  pomp  or  of  ab- 
solute indigence,  of  tragic  suffering  or  of  world- 
stirring  actions.  I  turn,  without  shrinking, 
from  cloud-borne  angels,  from  prophets,  sibyls, 
and  heroic  warriors,  to  an  old  woman  bending 
over  her  flower- pot  or  eating  her  solitary  dinner, 
while  the  noonday  light,  softened  perhaps  by 
a  screen  of  leaves,  falls  on  her  mob-cap,  and 
just  touches  the  rim  of  her  spinning-wheel  and 
her  stone  jug,  and  all  those  cheap  common 
things  which  are  the  precious  necessaries  of  life 
to  her;  or  I  turn  to  that  village  wedding,  kept 
between  four  brown  walls,  where  an  awkward 
bridegroom  opens  the  dance  with  a  high- 
shouldered,  broad-faced  bride,  while  elderly 
and  middle-aged  friends  look  on,  with  very 
irregular  noses  and  lips,  and  probably  with 
quart- pots  in  their  hands,  but  with  an  expres- 
sion of  unmistakable  contentment  and  good- 


262  ADAM  BEDE 

will.  "Foh!"  says  my  idealistic  friend,  "what 
vulgar  details!  What  good  is  there  in  taking 
all  these  pains  to  give  an  exact  likeness  of  old 
women  and  clowns  ?     What  a  low  phase  of  life  I 

—  what  clumsy,  ugly  people!" 

But  bless  us,  things  may  be  lovable  that  are 
not  altogether  handsome,  I  hope  ?  I  am  not  at 
all  sure  that  the  majority  of  the  human  race 
have  not  been  ugly;  and  even  among  those 
"lords  of  their  kind,"  the  British,  squat  figures, 
ill-shapen  nostrils,  and  dingy  complexions  are 
not  startling  exceptions.  Yet  there  is  a  great 
deal  of  family  love  amongst  us.  I  have  a  friend 
or  two  whose  class  of  features  is  such  that  the 
Apollo  curl  on  the  summit  of  their  brows  would 
be  decidedly  trying;  yet  to  my  certain  knowl- 
edge tender  hearts  have  beaten  for  them,  and 
their  miniatures  —  flattering,  but  still  not  lovely 

—  are  kissed  in  secret  by  motherly  lips.  1  have 
seen  many  an  excellent  matron,  who  could  never 
in  her  best  days  have  been  handsome,  and  yet 
she  had  a  packet  of  yellow  love-letters  in  a 
private  drawer,  and  sweet  children  showered 
kisses  on  her  sallow  cheeks.  And  I  believe 
there  have  been  plenty  of  young  heroes,  of  mid- 
dle stature  and  feeble  beards,  who  have  felt 
quite  sure  they  could  never  love  anything  more 
insignificant  than  a  Diana,  and  yet  have  found 
themselves  in  middle  life  happily  settled  with  a 
wife  who  waddles.  Yes!  thank  God;  human 
feeling  is  like  the  mighty  rivers  that  bless 
the  earth :  it  does  not  wait  for  beauty,  —  it 
flows  with  resistless  force,  and  brings  beauty 
with    it. 

All  honour  and  reverence  to  the  divine  beauty 


THE   STORY   PAUSES  A  LITTLE  263 

of  form!  Let  us  cultivate  it  to  the  utmost  in 
men,  women,  and  children,  —  in  our  gardens 
and  in  our  houses.  But  let  us  love  that  other 
beauty  too,  which  lies  in  no  secret  of  propor- 
tion, but  in  the  secret  of  deep  human  sympathy. 
Paint  us  an  angel,  if  you  can,  with  a  floating 
violet  robe,  and  a  face  paled  by  the  celestial 
light;  paint  us  yet  oftener  a  Madonna,  turning 
her  mild  face  upward  and  opening  her  arms  to 
welcome  the  divine  glory;  but  do  not  impose 
on  us  any  aesthetic  rules  which  shall  banish 
from  the  region  of  Art  those  old  women  scrap- 
ing carrots  with  their  work-worn  hands,  those 
heavy  clowns  taking  holiday  in  a  dingy  pot- 
house, those  rounded  backs  and  stupid  weather- 
beaten  faces  that  have  bent  over  the  spade  and 
done  the  rough  work  of  the  world,  —  those 
homes  with  their  tin  pans,  their  brown  pitchers, 
their  rough  curs,  and  their  clusters  of  onions. 
In  this  world  there  are  so  many  of  these  common 
coarse  people,  who  have  no  picturesque,  senti- 
mental wretchedness!  It  is  so  needful  we 
should  remember  their  existence,  else  we  naay 
happen  to  leave  them  quite  out  of  our  religion 
and  philosophy,  and  frame  lofty  theories  which 
only  fit  a  world  of  extremes.  Therefore  let 
Art  always  remind  us  of  them;  therefore  let  us 
always  have  men  ready  to  give  the  loving  pains 
of  a  life  to  the  faithful  representing  of  common- 
place things,  —  men  who  see  beauty  in  these 
commonplace  things,  and  delight  in  showing 
how  kindly  the  light  of  heaven  falls  on  them. 
There  are  few  prophets  in  the  world,  few  sub- 
limely beautiful  women,  few  heroes.  I  can't 
afford  to  give  all  my  love  and  reverence  to  such 


264  ADAM   BEDE 

rarities;  I  want  a  great  deal  of  those  feelings 
for  my  every-day  fellow-men,  especially  for  the 
few  in  the  foreground  of  the  great  multitude, 
whose  faces  I  know,  whose  hands  I  touch,  for 
whom  I  have  to  make  way  with  kindly  courtesy. 
Neither  are  picturesque  lazzaroni  or  romantic 
criminals  half  so  frequent  as  your  common 
labourer  who  gets  his  own  bread,  and  eats  it 
vulgarly  but  creditably  with  his  own  pocket- 
knife.  It  is  more  needful  that  I  should  have 
a  fibre  of  sympathy  connecting  me  with  that 
vulgar  citizen  who  weighs  out  my  sugar  in  a 
vilely  assorted  cravat  and  waistcoat,  than  with 
the  handsomest  rascal  in  red  scarf  and  green 
feathers;  more  needful  that  my  heart  should 
swell  with  loving  admiration  at  some  trait  of 
gentle  goodness  in  the  faulty  people  who  sit  at 
the  same  hearth  with  me,  or  in  the  clergyman 
of  my  own  parish,  who  is  perhaps  rather  too 
corpulent,  and  in  other  respects  is  not  an  Ober- 
lin  or  a  Tillotson,  than  at  the  deeds  of  heroes 
whom  I  shall  never  know  except  by  hearsay, 
or  at  the  sublimest  abstract  of  all  clerical  graces 
that  was  ever  conceived  by  an  able  novelist. 

And  so  I  come  back  to  Mr.  Irwine,  with  whom 
I  desire  you  to  be  in  perfect  charity,  far  as  he 
may  be  from  satisfying  your  demands  on  the 
clerical  character.  Perhaps  you  think  he  was 
not  —  as  he  ought  to  have  been  —  a  living 
demonstration  of  the  benefits  attached  to  a 
national  church.^  But  I  am  not  sure  of  that; 
at  least  I  know  that  the  people  in  Broxton  and 
Hayslope  would  have  been  very  sorry  to  part 
with  their  clergyman,  and  that  most  faces 
brightened  at  his  approach;    and  until  it  can 


THE   STORY  PAUSES   A   LITTLE  265 

be  proved  that  hatred  is  a  better  thing  for  the 
soul  than  love,  I  must  believe  that  Mr.  Irwine's 
influence  in  his  parish  was  a  more  wholesome 
one  than  that  of  the  zealous  Mr.  Ryde,  who 
came  there  twenty  years  afterwards,  when  Mr. 
Irwine  had  been  gathered  to  his  fathers.  It  is 
true,  Mr.  Ryde  insisted  strongly  on  the  doc- 
trines of  the  Reformation,  visited  his  flock  a 
great  deal  in  their  own  homes,  and  was  severe 
in  rebuking  the  aberrations  of  the  flesh,  —  put 
a  stop,  indeed,  to  the  Christmas  rounds  of  the 
church  singers,  as  promoting  drunkenness,  and 
too  light  a  handling  of  sacred  things.  But  I 
gathered  from  Adam  Bede,  to  w^hom  I  talked 
of  these  matters  in  his  old  age,  that  few  clergy- 
men could  be  less  successful  in  winning  the 
hearts  of  their  parishioners  than  Mr.  Ryde. 
They  learned  a  great  many  notions  about  doc- 
trine from  him,  so  that  almost  every  church- 
goer under  fifty  began  to  distinguish  as  well 
between  the  genuine  gospel  and  what  did  not 
come  precisely  up  to  that  standard,  as  if  he  had 
been  born  and  bred  a  Dissenter;  and  for  some 
time  after  his  arrival  there  seemed  to  be  quite 
a  religious  movement  in  that  quiet  rural  dis- 
trict. "But,"  said  Adam,  "I've  seen  pretty 
clear,  ever  since  I  was  a  young  un,  as  religion's 
something  else  besides  notions.  It  is  n't  notions 
sets  people  doing  the  right  thing,  —  it's  feelings. 
It's  the  same  with  the  notions  in  religion  as  it  is 
with  math'matics,  —  a  man  may  be  able  to 
work  problems  straight  ofl^  in  's  head  as  he  sits 
by  the  fire  and  smokes  his  pipe;  but  if  he  has 
to  make  a  machine  or  a  building,  he  must  have 
a  will  and  a  resolution,  and  love  something  else 


266  ADAM   BEDE 

better  than  his  own  ease.  Somehow  the  con- 
gregation began  to  fall  off,  and  people  be- 
gan to  speak  light  o'  Mr.  Ryde.  I  believe 
he  meant  right  at  bottom;  but,  you  see,  he 
was  sourish- tempered,  and  was  for  beating 
down  prices  with  the  people  as  worked  for  him; 
and  his  preaching  would  n't  go  down  well  with 
that  sauce.  And  he  wanted  to  be  like  my  lord 
judge  i'  the  parish,  punishing  folks  for  doing 
wrong;  and  he  scolded  'em  from  the  pulpit  as 
if  he'd  been  a  Ranter,  and  yet  he  could  n't 
abide  the  Dissenters,  and  was  a  deal  more  set 
against  'em  than  Mr.  Irwine  was.  And  then 
he  did  n't  keep  within  his  income,  for  he  seemed 
to  think  at  first  go-off  that  six  hundred  a-year 
was  to  make  him  as  bio;  a  man  as  Mr.  Donni- 
thorne:  that's  a  sore  mischief  I've  often  seen 
with  the  poor  curates  jumping  into  a  bit  of  a 
living  all  of  a  sudden.  Mr.  Ryde  was  a  deal 
thought  on  at  a  distance,  I  believe,  and  he  wrote 
books;  but  for  math'matics  and  the  natur  o' 
things,  he  was  as  ignorant  as  a  woman.  He  was 
very  knowing  about  doctrines,  and  used  to  call 
'em  the  bulwarks  of  the  Reformation;  but  I've 
always  mistrusted  that  sort  o'  learning  as  leaves 
folks  foolish  and  unreasonable  about  business. 
Now  Mester  Irwine  was  as  different  as  could  be : 
as  quick!  —  he  understood  what  you  meant  in 
a  minute;  and  he  knew  all  about  building,  and 
could  see  when  you'd  made  a  good  job.  And 
he  behaved  as  much  like  a  gentleman  to  the 
farmers  and  th'  old  women  and  the  labourers 
as  he  did  to  the  gentry.  You  never  saw  him 
interfering  and  scolding,  and  trying  to  play  th' 
emperor.     Ah!    he  was  a  fine  man  as  ever  you 


THE   STORY  PAUSES  A  LITTLE  267 

set  eyes  on ;  and  so  kind  to  's  mother  and  sisters. 
That  poor  sickly  Miss  Anne,  —  he  seemed  to 
think  more  of  her  than  of  anybody  else  in  the 
world.  There  was  n't  a  soul  in  the  parish  had 
a  word  to  say  against  him;  and  his  servants 
stayed  with  him  till  they  were  so  old  and  potter- 
ing he  had  to  hire  other  folks  to  do  their  work." 

"  Well,"  I  said,  "  that  was  an  excellent  way  of 
preaching  in  the  week-days:  but  I  dare  say,  if 
your  old  friend  Mr.  Irwine  were  to  come  to  life 
again,  and  get  into  the  pulpit  next  Sunday,  you 
would  be  rather  ashamed  that  he  did  n't  preach 
better  after  all  your  praise  of  him." 

"  Nay,  nay,"  said  Adam,  broadening  his  chest 
and  throwing  himself  back  in  his  chair,  as  if  he 
w^ere  ready  to  meet  all  inferences,  "  nobody  has 
ever  heard  me  say  Mr.  Irwine  was  much  of  a 
preacher.  He  did  n'  t  go  into  deep  speritial 
experience ;  and  I  know  there 's  a  deal  in  a 
man's  inward  life  as  you  can't  measure  by  the 
square,  and  say,  'Do  this  and  that'll  follow,' 
and  'Do  that  and  this '11  follow.'  There's 
things  go  on  in  the  soul,  and  times  when  feel- 
ings come  into  you  like  a  rushing  mighty  wind, 
as  the  Scripture  says,  and  part  your  life  in  two 
a'most,  so  as  you  look  back  on  yourself  as  if 
you  was  somebody  else.  Those  are  things  as 
you  can't  bottle  up  in  a  'do  this'  and  'do  that;' 
and  I'll  go  so  far  with  the  strongest  Methodist 
ever  you'll  find.  That  shows  me  there's  deep 
speritial  things  in  religion.  You  can't  make 
much  out  wi'  talking  about  it,  but  you  feel  it. 
Mr.  Irwine  did  n't  go  into  those  things:  he 
preached  short  moral  sermons,  and  that  was 
all.     But  then  he  acted  pretty  much  up  to  what 


268  ADAM   BEDE 

he  said ;  he  did  n't  set  up  for  being  so  different 
from  other  folks  one  day,  and  then  be  as  like 
'em  as  two  peas  the  next.  And  he  made  folks 
love  him  and  respect  him,  and  that  was  better 
nor  stirring  up  their  gall  wi'  being  over- busy. 
Mrs.  Poyser  used  to  say,  —  you  know  she  would 
have  her  word  about  everything,  —  she  said, 
Mr.  Irwine  was  like  a  good  meal  o'  victual,  you 
were  the  better  for  him  without  thinking  on  it; 
and  Mr.  Ryde  was  like  a  dose  o'  physic,  he 
gripped  you  and  worreted  you,  and  after  all  he 
left  you  much  the  same." 

"13ut  didn't  Mr.  Ryde  preach  a  great  deal 
more  about  that  spiritual  part  of  religion  that 
you  talk  of,  Adam  ?  Covdd  n't  you  get  more 
out  of  his  sermons  than  out  of  Mr.  Irwine's  .^" 

"Eh,  I  knowna.  He  preached  a  deal  about 
doctrines.  But  I've  seen  pretty  clear  ever  since 
I  was  a  young  un,  as  religion  's  something  else 
besides  doctrines  and  notions.  I  look  at  it  as 
if  the  doctrines  was  like  finding  names  for 
your  feelings,  so  as  you  can  talk  of  'em  when 
you've  never  known  'em,  just  as  a  man  may 
talk  o'  tools  when  he  knows  their  names,  though 
he's  never  so  much  as  seen  'em,  still  less  handled 
'em.  I've  heard  a  deal  o'  doctrine  i'  my  time, 
for  I  used  to  go  after  the  Dissenting  preachers 
along  wi'  Seth,  when  I  was  a  lad  o'  seventeen, 
and  got  puzzling  myself  a  deal  about  th'  Armi- 
nians  and  the  Calvinists.  The  Wesleyans,  you 
know,  are  strong  Arminians;  and  Seth,  who 
could  never  abide  anything  harsh  and  was  al- 
ways for  hoping  the  best,  held  fast  by  the  Wes- 
leyans from  the  very  first;  but  I  thought  I  could 
pick  a  hole  or  two  in  their  notions,  and  I  got 


THE   STORY  PAUSES  A   LITTLE  269 

disputing  wi'  one  o'  the  class  leaders  down  at 
Treddles'on,  and  harassed  him  so,  first  o'  this 
side  and  then  o'  that,  till  at  last  he  said,  '  Young 
man,  it's  the  devil  making  use  o'  your  pride  and 
conceit  as  a  weapon  to  war  against  the  sim- 
plicity o'  the  truth.'  I  could  n't  help  laughing 
then;  but  as  I  was  going  home,  I  thought  the 
man  was  n't  far  wrong.  I  began  to  see  as  all 
this  weighing  and  sifting  what  this  text  means 
and  that  text  means,  and  whether  folks  are 
saved  all  by  God's  grace,  or  whether  there  goes 
an  ounce  o'  their  own  will  to  't,  was  no  part  o' 
real  religion  at  all.  You  may  talk  o'  these 
things  for  hours  on  end,  and  you'll  only  be  all 
the  more  coxy  and  conceited  for  't.  So  I  took 
to  going  nowhere  but  to  church,  and  hearing 
nobody  but  Mr.  Irwine;  for  he  said  nothing  but 
what  was  good,  and  what  you'd  be  the  wiser  for 
remembering.  And  I  found  it  better  for  my 
soul  to  be  humble  before  the  mysteries  o'  God's 
dealings,  and  not  be  making  a  clatter  about 
what  I  could  never  understand.  And  they're 
poor,  foolish  questions,  after  all;  for  what  have 
we  got  either  inside  or  outside  of  us  but  what 
comes  from  God  .^  If  we've  got  a  resolution 
to  do  right,  he  gave  it  us,  I  reckon,  first  or  last; 
but  I  see  plain  enough  we  shall  never  do  it  with- 
out a  resolution,  and  that's  enough  for  me." 

Adam,  you  perceive,  was  a  warm  admirer,  per- 
haps a  partial  judge,  of  Mr.  Irwine,  as,  happily, 
some  of  us  still  are  of  the  people  we  have  known 
familiarly.  Doubtless  it  will  be  despised  as  a 
weakness  by  that  lofty  order  of  minds  who  pant 
after  the  ideal,  ancl  are  oppressed  by  a  general 
sense  that  their  emotions  are  of  too  exquisite  a 


270  ADAM   BEDE 

character  to  find  fit  objects  among  their  every- 
day fellow-men.  1  have  often  been  favoured 
with  the  confidence  of  these  select  natures,  and 
find  them  concur  in  the  experience  that  great 
men  are  over-estimated  and  small  men  are  in- 
supportable; that  if  you  would  love  a  woman 
without  ever  looking  back  on  your  love  as  a 
folly,  she  must  die  while  you  are  courting  her; 
and  if  you  would  maintain  the  slightest  belief 
in  human  heroism,  you  must  never  make  a 
pilgrimage  to  see  the  hero.  I  confess  I  have 
often  meanly  shrunk  from  confessing  to  these 
accomplished  and  acute  gentlemen  what  my 
own  exj)erience  has  been.  I  am  afraid  I  have 
often  smiled  with  hypocritical  assent,  and  grati- 
fied them  with  an  epigram  on  the  fleeting  nature 
of  our  illusions,  which  any  one  moderately 
acquainted  with  French  literature  can  com- 
mand at  a  moment's  notice.  Human  converse, 
I  think  some  wise  man  has  remarked,  is  not 
rigidly  sincere.  But  I  herewith  discharge  my 
conscience,  and  declare  that  I  have  had  quite 
enthusiastic  movements  of  admiration  towards 
old  gentlemen  who  spoke  the  worst  English, 
who  were  occasionally  fretful  in  their  temper, 
and  who  had  never  moved  in  a  higher  sphere 
of  influence  than  that  of  parish  overseer;  and 
that  the  way  in  which  I  have  come  to  the  con- 
clusion that  human  nature  is  lovable  —  the  way 
I  have  learnt  something  of  its  deep  pathos,  its 
sublime  mysteries  —  has  been  by  living  a  great 
deal  among  people  more  or  less  commonplace 
and  vulgar,  of  whom  you  would  perhaps  hear 
nothing  very  surprising  if  you  were  to  inquire 
about  them  in  the  neighbourhoods  where  they 


THE   STORY  PAUSES  A   LITTLE  271 

dwelt.  Ten  to  one  most  of  the  small  shop- 
keepers in  their  vicinity  saw  nothing  at  all  in 
them.  For  I  have  observed  this  remarkable 
coincidence,  that  the  select  natures  who  pant 
after  the  ideal,  and  find  nothing  in  pantaloons 
or  petticoats  great  enough  to  command  their 
reverence  and  love,  are  curiously  in  unison  with 
the  narrowest  and  pettiest.  For  example,  I 
have  often  heard  Mr.  Gedge,  the  landlord  of 
the  Royal  Oak,  who  used  to  turn  a  bloodshot 
eye  on  his  neighbours  in  the  village  of  Shepper- 
ton,  sum  up  his  opinion  of  the  people  in  his  own 
parish,  —  and  they  were  all  the  people  he  knew, 
—  in  these  emphatic  words:  *' Ay,  sir,  I've  said 
it  often,  and  I'll  say  it  again,  they're  a  poor  lot 
i'  this  parish,  — -  a  poor  lot,  sir,  big  and  little." 
I  think  he  had  a  dim  idea  that  if  he  could 
migrate  to  a  distant  parish,  he  might  find  neigh- 
bours worthy  of  him ;  and  indeed  he  did  sub- 
sequently transfer  himself  to  the  Saracen's  Head, 
which  was  doing  a  thriving  business  in  the  back 
street  of  a  neighbouring  market- town.  But, 
oddly  enough,  he  has  found  the  people  up  that 
back  street  of  precisely  the  same  stamp  as  the 
inhabitants  of  Shepperton,  —  "a  poor  lot,  sir, 
big  and  little;  and  them  as  comes  for  a  go  o' 
gin  are  no  better  than  them  as  comes  for  a  pint 
o'  twopenny,  —  a  poor  lot." 


CHAPTER   II 

CHURCH 


H 


ETTY,  Hetty,  doif  t  you  know  church 
begins  at  two,  and  it's  gone  half  after 
one  a'readv  ?  Have  vou  got  nothin<i; 
better  to  think  on  this  good  Sunday,  as  poor  ohl 
Thias  Bede\s  to  be  put  into  the  ground,  and  him 
drownded  i'  th'  dead  o'  the  night,  as  it's  enough 
to  make  one's  back  run  cohl,  but  you  must  be 
'dizeniny;  yourself  as  if  there  was  a  weddin": 
istid  of  a  funeral  ?" 

"Well,  aunt,"  said  Hetty,  "I  can't  be  ready 
so  soon  as  everybody  else,  wdien  I've  got  Totty's 
things  to  put  on.  And  I'd  ever  such  work  to 
make  her  stand  still." 

Hetty  was  coming  downstairs,  and  Mrs.  Poy- 
ser,  in  her  plain  bonnet  and  shawl,  was  stand- 
ing below.  If  ever  a  girl  looked  as  if  she  had 
been  made  of  roses,  that  girl  was  Hetty  in  her 
Sunday  hat  and  frock.  For  her  hat  was 
trimmed  with  pink,  and  her  frock  had  pink 
spots,  sprinkled  on  a  white  ground.  There 
was  nothing  but  pink  and  white  about  her,  ex- 
cept in  her  dark  hair  and  eyes  and  her  little  buc- 
kled shoes.  Mrs.  Poyser  was  provoked  at  herself, 
for  she  could  hardly  keep  from  snnling,  as  any 
mortal  is  inclined  to  do  at  the  sight  of  pretty, 
round  things.  So  she  turned  without  speaking, 
and  joined  the  group  outside  the  house  door, 
followed  by  Hetty,  whose  heart  was  fluttering 


CHURCH  273 

so  at  the  thought  of  some  one  she  expected  to 
see  at  church,  that  she  hardly  felt  the  ground 
she  trod  on. 

And  now  the  little  procession  set  off.  Mr. 
Poyser  was  in  his  Sunday  suit  of  drab,  with  a 
red-and-green  waistcoat,  and  a  green  watch- 
ribbon,  having  a  large  carnelian  seal  attached, 
pendent  like  a  plumb-line  from  that  promontory 
where  his  watch-pocket  was  situated;  a  silk 
handkerchief  of  a  yellow  tone  round  his  neck; 
and  excellent  gray  ribbed  stockings,  knitted  by 
Mrs.  Poyser's  own  hand,  setting  off  the  propor- 
tions of  his  leg.  Mr.  Poyser  had  no  reason  to 
be  ashamed  of  his  leg,  and  suspected  that  the 
growing  abuse  of  top-boots  and  other  fashions 
tending  to  disguise  the  nether  limbs  had  their 
origin  in  a  pitiable  degeneracy  of  the  human 
calf.  Still  less  had  he  reason  to  be  ashamed  of 
his  round  jolly  face,  which  was  good-humour 
itself  as  he  said,  "Come,  Hetty;  come,  little 
uns!"  and  giving  his  arm  to  his  wife,  led  the 
way  through  the  causeway  gate  into  the  yard. 

The  "little  uns"  addressed  were  Marty  and 
Tommy,  boys  of  nine  and  seven,  in  little  fustian 
tailed  coats  and  knee-breeches,  relieved  by  rosy 
cheeks  and  black  eyes  ;  looking  as  much  like 
their  father  as  a  very  small  elephant  is  like  a 
very  large  one.  Hetty  walked  between  them, 
and  behind  came  patient  Molly,  whose  task  it 
was  to  carry  Totty  through  the  yard,  and  over 
all  the  wet  places  on  the  road;  for  Totty,  hav- 
ing speedily  recovered  from  her  threatened  fever, 
had  insisted  on  going  to  church  to-day,  and  es- 
pecially on  wearing  her  red- and- black  necklace 
outside  her  tippet.     And  there  were  many  wet 

VOL.  I  — 18 


274  ADAM  BEDE 

places  for  her  to  be  carried  over  this  afternoon, 
for  there  had  been  heavy  showers  in  tlie  morn- 
ing, though  now  the  clouds  had  rolled  oil"  and 
lay  in  towering  silvery  masses  on  the  horizon. 

You  might  have  known  it  was  Sunday  if  you 
had  only  waked  up  in  the  farmyard.  The  cocks 
and  hens  seemed  to  know  it,  and  made  only 
crooning,  subdued  noises;  the  very  bull-dog 
looked  less  savage,  as  if  he  w^ould  have  been 
satisfied  with  a  smaller  bite  than  usual.  The 
sunshine  seemed  to  call  all  things  to  rest  and 
not  to  labour;  it  w^as  asleep  itself  on  the  moss- 
grown  cow-shed;  on  the  group  of  white  ducks 
nestling  together  with  their  bills  tucked  under 
their  wings;  on  the  old  black  sow  stretched 
languidly  on  the  straw,  while  her  largest  young 
one  found  an  excellent  spring- bed  on  his 
mother's  fat  ribs;  on  Alick,  the  shepherd,  in 
his  new  smock-frock,  taking  an  uneasy  siesta, 
half  sitting,  half  standing,  on  the  granary  steps. 
Alick  was  of  opinion  that  church,  like  other 
luxuries,  was  not  to  be  indulged  in  often  by  a 
foreman  who  had  the  weather  and  the  ewes 
on  his  mind.  "Church!  nay,  — I'n  gotten 
summat  else  to  think  on,"  was  an  answer  which 
he  often  uttered  in  a  tone  of  bitter  significance 
that  silenced  further  question.  1  feel  sure  Alick 
meant  no  irreverence;  indeed,  I  know  that  his 
mind  was  not  of  a  speculative,  negative  cast, 
and  he  would  on  no  account  have  missed  going 
to  church  on  Christmas  Day,  Easter  Sunday, 
and  "Whissuntide."  But  he  had  a  general 
impression  that  public  worship  and  religious 
ceremonies,  like  other  non-productive  employ- 
ments, w^ere  intended  for  people  w  ho  had  leisure. 


CHURCH  275 

"There's  father  a-standing  at  the  yard-gate,'* 
said  Martin  Poyser.  "I  reckon  he  wants  to 
watch  us  down  the  field.  It's  wonderful  what 
sight  he  has,  and  him  turned  seventy-five." 

"Ah,  I  often  think  it's  wi'  th'  old  folks  as  it  is 
wi'  the  babbies,"  said  Mrs.  Poyser;  "they're 
satisfied  wi'  looking,  no  matter  what  they're 
looking  at.  It's  God  A'mighty's  way  o'  quiet- 
ening 'em,  I  reckon,  afore  they  go  to  sleep." 

Old  Martin  opened  the  gate  as  he  saw  the 
family  procession  approaching,  and  held  it  wide 
open,  leaning  on  his  stick,  —  pleased  to  do  this 
bit  of  work;  for,  like  all  old  men  whose  life  has 
been  spent  in  labour,  he  liked  to  feel  that  he  was 
still  useful,  —  that  there  was  a  better  crop  of 
onions  in  the  garden  because  he  was  by  at  the 
sowing,  —  and  that  the  cows  would  be  milked 
the  better  if  he  stayed  at  home  on  a  Sunday 
afternoon  to  look  on.  He  always  went  to 
church  on  Sacrament  Sundays,  but  not  very 
regularly  at  other  times;  on  wet  Sundays  or 
whenever  he  had  a  touch  of  rheumatism,  he 
used  to  read  the  three  first  chapters  of  Genesis 
instead. 

"They'll  ha'  putten  Thias  Bede  i'  the  ground 
afore  ye  get  to  the  churchyard,"  he  said,  as  his 
son  came  up.  "It  'ud  ha'  been  better  luck  if 
they'd  ha'  buried  him  i'  the  forenoon,  when  the 
rain  was  fallin';  there's  no  likelihoods  of  a  drop 
now;  an'  the  moon  lies  like  a  boat  there,  dost 
see.^  That's  a  sure  sign  o'  fair  weather, — 
there's  a  many  as  is  false,  but  that's  sure." 

"Ay,  ay,"  said  the  son,  "I'm  in  hopes  it'll 
hold  up  now." 

"Mind  what  the  parson  says,  mind  what  the 


276  ADAM   BEDE 

parson  says,  my  lads,"  said  grandfather  to  the 
black-eyed  youngsters  in  knee-breeches,  con- 
scious of  a  marble  or  two  in  their  pockets,  which 
they  looked  forward  to  handling  a  little,  secretly, 
during  the  sermon. 

"Dood-by,  dandad,"  said  Totty.  "  Me  doin' 
to  church.  INIe  dot  my  netlace  on.  Dive  me 
a  peppermint." 

Grandad,  shaking  with  laughter  at  this  "deep 
little  wench,"  slowly  transferred  his  stick  to  his 
left  hand  which  held  the  gate  open,  and  slowly 
thrust  his  finger  into  the  waistcoat-pocket  on 
which  Totty  had  fixed  her  eyes  with  a  confident 
look  of  expectation. 

And  when  they  were  all  gone,  the  old  man 
leaned  on  the  gate  again,  watching  them  across 
the  lane  along  the  Home  Close,  and  through  the 
far  gate,  till  tliey  disappeared  ])ehind  a  bend  in 
the  hedge.  For  the  hedgerows  in  those  days 
shut  out  one's  view,  even  on  the  better- man- 
aged farms;  and  tliis  afternoon,  the  dog-roses 
were  tossing  out  their  pink  wreaths,  the  night- 
shade was  in  its  yellow  and  purple  glory,  the 
pale  honeysuckle  grew  out  of  reach,  peeping 
high  up  out  of  a  holly  l)usli,  and  over  all  an  ash 
or  a  sycamore  every  now  and  then  threw  its 
shadow   across    the   path. 

There  were  acquaintances  at  other  gates  who 
had  to  move  aside  and  let  them  pass:  at  the 
gate  of  the  Home  Close  there  was  half  the  dairy 
of  cows  standing  one  behind  the  other,  ex- 
tremely slow  to  understand  that  their  large 
bodies  might  be  in  the  way;  at  the  far  gate 
there  was  the  mare  holding  her  head  over  the 
bars,  and  beside  her  the  liver-coloured  foal  with 


CHURCH  277 

its  head  towards  its  mother's  flank,  apparently 
still  much  embarrassed  by  its  own  straddling 
existence.  The  way  lay  entirely  through  Mr. 
Poyser's  own  fields  till  they  reached  the  main 
road  leading  to  the  village,  and  he  turned  a  keen 
eye  on  the  stock  and  the  crops  as  they  went 
along,  while  Mrs.  Poyser  was  ready  to  supply 
a  running  commentary  on  them  all.  The 
woman  who  manages  a  dairy  has  a  large  share 
in  making  the  rent,  so  she  may  well  be  allowed 
to  have  her  opinion  on  stock  and  their  "keep," 

—  an  exercise  which  strengthens  her  under- 
standing so  much  that  she  finds  herself  able  to 
give  her  husband  advice  on  most  other  subjects. 

"There's  that  short-horned  Sally,"  she  said, 
as  they  entered  the  Home  Close,  and  she  caught 
sight  of  the  meek  beast  that  lay  chewing  the  cud, 
and  looking  at  her  with  a  sleepy  eye.  "I  begin 
to  hate  the  sight  o'  the  cow;  and  I  say  now 
what  I  said  three  weeks  ago,  the  sooner  we  get 
rid  of  her  the  better,  for  there's  that  little  yallow 
cow  as  does  n't  give  half  the  milk,  and  yet  I've 
twice  as  much  butter  from  her." 

"Why,  thee  't  not  like  the  women  in  general," 
said  Mr.  Poyser;  "they  like  the  short- horns,  as 
give  such  a  lot  o'  milk.  There's  Chowne's  wife 
wants  him  to  buy  no  other  sort." 

"What's  it  sinnify  what  Chowne's  wife  likes  ? 

—  a  poor  soft  thing,  wi'  no  more  head-piece  nor 
a  sparrow.  She'd  take  a  big  cullender  to  strain 
her  lard  wi',  and  then  wonder  as  the  scratchin's 
run  through.  I've  seen  enough  of  her  to  know 
as  I'll  niver  take  a  servant  from  her  house  again, 

—  all  hugger-mugger,  —  and  you'd  niver  know, 
when  you  went  in,  whether  it  was  Monday  or 


278  ADAM   BEDE 

Friday,  the  wash  draggin'  on  to  th'  end  o*  the 
week;  and  as  for  her  eheese,  I  know  well  enough 
it  rose  hke  a  loaf  in  a  tin  last  year.  And  then 
she  talks  o'  the  weather  bein'  i'  fault,  as  there's 
folks  'ud  stand  on  their  heads  and  then  say  the 
fault  was  i'   their  boots." 

"Well,  Chowne's  been  w\'inting  to  buy  Sally, 
so  we  can  get  rid  of  her  if  thee  lik'st,"  said  Mr. 
Poyser,  secretly  proud  of  his  wife's  superior 
power  of  putting  two  and  two  together;  indeed, 
on  recent  market-days  he  had  more  than  once 
boasted  of  her  discernment  in  this  very  matter 
of  short- horns. 

"Ay,  them  as  choose  a  soft  for  a  wiie  may's 
w^ell  buy  up  the  short-horns,  for  if  you  get  your 
head  stuck  in  a  ])o^  your  legs  may's  well  go 
after  it.  Eh!  talk  o  legs,  there's  legs  for  you," 
Mrs.  Poyser  continued,  as  Totty,  who  had  been 
set  down  now  tlie  road  was  dry,  loddlcd  on  in 
front  of  her  father  and  mother.  "There's 
shapes!  An'  she's  got  such  a  long  foot,  she'll 
be  her  father's  own  child." 

"x\y,  she'll  be  welly  such  a  one  as  Hetty  i' 
ten  years'  time,  on'v  she's  got  thy  coloured  eyes. 
I  niver  remember  a  blue  eye  i'  my  family;  my 
mother  had  eyes  as  black  as  sloes,  just  like 
Hetty's." 

"The  child  'uU  be  none  the  worse  for  having 
summat  as  is  n't  like  Hetty.  An'  I'm  none  for 
having  her  so  over- pretty.  Though  for  the  matter 
o'  that,  there's  people  wi'  light  hair  an'  blue  eyes 
as  pretty  as  them  wi'  black.  If  Dinah  had  got  a 
bit  o'  colour  in  her  cheeks,  an'  did  n't  stick  that 
Methodist  cap  on  her  head,  enough  to  frighten 
the  cow^s,  folks  'ud  think  her  as  pretty  as  Hetty." 


CHURCH  279 

"Nay,  nay,"  said  Mr.  Poyser,  with  rather  a 
contemptuous  emphasis,  "thee  dostna  know 
the  p'ints  of  a  woman.  The  men  'ud  niver  run 
after  Dinah  as  they  would  after  Hetty." 

"What  care  I  what  the  men  'ud  run  after? 
It's  well  seen  what  choice  the  most  of  'em  know 
how  to  make,  bv  the  poor  draggle-tails  o'  wives 
you  see,  like  bits  o'  gauze  ribbin,  good  for  noth- 
ing when  the  colour's  gone." 

"Well,  well,  thee  canstna  say  but  what  i 
knowed  how  to  make  a  choice  when  I  married 
thee,"  said  Mr.  Poyser,  who  usually  settled 
little  conjugal  disputes  by  a  compliment  of  this 
sort;  "and  thee  wast  twice  as  buxom  as  Dinah 
ten  year  ago." 

"  I  niver  said  as  a  woman  had  need  to  be  ugly 
to   make  a  good  missis  of  a  house.     There's 
Chowne's  wife  ugly  enough  to  turn  the  milk  an 
save  the  rennet,  but  she'll  niver  save  nothing 
any  other  way.     But  as  for  Dinah,  poor  child, 
she's  niver  likely  to  be  buxom  as  long  as  she  11 
make  her  dinner  o'  cake  and  water,  for  the  sake 
o'  giving  to  them  as  want.     She  provoked  me 
past  bearing  sometimes ;   and,  as  I  told  her,  she 
went  clean  again'  the  Scriptur',  for  that  says, 
*Love   your   neighbour   as   yourself;'     *but,     1 
said  '  if  vou  loved  your  neighbour  no  better  nor 
vou'do  yourself,  Dinah,  it's  little  enough  you'd 
do  for  him.     You'd  be  thinking  he  might  do 
well  enough  on  a  half-empty  stomach.'     Eh,  1 
wonder  where  she  is   this  blessed   Sunday!-— 
sitting  by  that  sick  woman,  I  dare  say,  as  she  d 
set  her  heart  on  going  to  all  of  a  sudden." 

"Ah,  it  was  a  pity  she  should  take  such  me^ 
trrims  into  her  head,'  when  she  might  ha'  stayed 

to 


280  ADAM   BEDE 

wi'  us  all  summer,  and  eaten  twice  as  much  as 
she  wanted,  and  it  'ud  niver  ha'  been  missed. 
She  made  no  odds  in  th'  house  at  all,  for  she  sat 
as  still  at  her  sewino;  as  a  bird  on  the  nest,  and 
was  uncommon  niml^le  at  running  to  fetch  any- 
thing. If  Hetty  gets  married,  thee  'dst  hke 
to  ha'  Dinah  wi'  thee  constant." 

"It's  no  use  thinking  o'  that,"  said  Mrs.  Poy- 
ser.  "You  might  as  well  beckon  to  the  flying 
swallow  as  ask  Dinah  to  come  an'  live  liere  com- 
fortable, like  other  folks.  If  anytliing  could 
turn  her,  /  should  ha'  turned  her,  for  I've  talked 
to  her  for  a  hour  on  end,  and  scolded  her  too; 
for  she's  my  own  sister's  child,  and  it  behoves 
me  to  do  what  I  can  for  her.  But  eh,  poor 
thing,  as  soon  as  she'd  said  us  'good-by,'  an' 
got  into  the  cart,  an'  looked  back  at  me  with 
her  pale  face,  as  is  welly  like  her  aunt  Judith 
come  back  from  heaven,  I  begun  to  be  fright- 
ened to  think  o'  the  set-downs  I'd  given  her; 
for  it  comes  over  you  sometimes  as  if  she'd  a 
way  o'  knowing  the  rights  o'  tilings  more  nor 
other  folks  have.  But  I  '11  niver  give  in  as  that 's 
'cause  she's  a  Methodist,  no  more  nor  a  wliite 
calf's  white  'cause  it  eats  out  o'  the  same  bucket 
wi'  a  black  un." 

"Nay,"  said  Mr.  Poyser,  with  as  near  an 
approach  to  a  snarl  as  his  good-nature  would 
allow;  " I 'n  no  opinion  o' the  Methodists.  It's 
on'y  tradesfolks  as  turn  Methodists;  you  niver 
knew  a  farmer  bitten  wi'  them  maggots.  There's 
maybe  a  workman  now  an'  then,  as  is  n't  over- 
clever  at  's  work,  takes  to  preachin'  an'  that, 
like  Seth  Bede.  But  you  see  Adam,  as  has 
got   one   o'   the    best  head- pieces  here  about, 


CHURCH  281 

knows  better;  he's  a  good  Churchman,  else  I'd 
never  encourage  him  for  a  sweetheart  for  Hetty." 

"Why,  goodness  me,"  said  Mrs.  Poyser,  who 
had  looked  back  while  her  husband  was  speak- 
ing, "look  where  Molly  is  with  them  lads! 
They're  the  field's  length  behind  us.  How 
could  you  let  'em  do  so,  Hetty  ?  Anybody 
might  as  well  set  a  pictur  to  watch  the  children 
as  you.     Run  back  and  tell  'em  to  come  on." 

Mr.  and  Mrs.  Poyser  were  now  at  the  end  of 
the  second  field,  so  they  set  Totty  on  the  top  of 
one  of  the  large  stones  forming  the  true  Loam- 
shire  stile,  and  awaited  the  loiterers;  Totty 
observing  with  complacency,  "Dey  naughty, 
naughty  boys,  —  me  dood." 

The  fact  was  that  this  Sunday  walk  through 
the  fields  was  fraught  with  great  excitement  to 
Marty  and  Tommy,  who  saw  a  perpetual  drama 
going  on  in  the  hedgerows,  and  could  no  more 
refrain  from  stopping  and  peeping  than  if  they 
had  been  a  couple  of  spaniels  or  terriers.  Marty 
was  quite  sure  he  saw  a  yellowhammer  on  the 
boughs  of  the  great  ash,  and  while  he  was  peep- 
ing, he  missed  the  sight  of  a  white- throated 
stoat,  which  had  run  across  the  path  and  was 
described  with  much  fervour  by  the  junior 
Tommy.  Then  there  was  a  little  greenfinch, 
just  fledged,  fluttering  along  the  ground,  and 
it  seemed  quite  possible  to  catch  it,  till  it  man- 
aged to  flutter  under  the  blackberry  bush. 
Hetty  could  not  be  got  to  give  any  heed  to  these 
things;  so  Molly  was  called  on  for  her  ready 
sympathy,  and  peeped  with  open  mouth  wher- 
ever she  was  told,  and  said  "Lawks!"  when- 
ever she  was  expected  to  wonder. 


282  ADAM   BEDE 

Molly  hastened  on  with  some  alarm  when 
Hetty  had  come  back  and  called  to  tiicm  that 
her  aunt  was  angry;  but  Marty  ran  on  first, 
shouting,  "We've  found  the  speckled  turkey's 
nest,  mother!"  with  the  instinctive  confidence 
that  people  who  bring  good  news  are  never  in 
fault. 

"Ah,"  said  Mrs.  Povser,  reallv  forg:ettin":  all 
discipline  in  this  pleasant  surprise,  "that's  a 
good  lad;   why,  where  is  it.'^" 

"Down  in  ever  such  [i  hole,  under  the  hedge. 
I  saw  it  first,  looking  after  the  greenfinch,  and 
she  sat  on  th'  nest." 

"You  did  n't  frighten  her,  T  hope,"  said  the 
mother,   "else  slie'll   forsake   it." 

"No,  I  went  away  as  still  as  still,  and  whis- 
pered to  trolly,  —  did  n't  T,  Molly  .-" 

"Well,  well,  now  come  on,"  said  Mrs.  Poyscr, 
"and  walk  before  father  and  mother,  and  take 
your  little  sister  by  the  hand.  We  nuist  go 
straight  on  now.  Good  boys  don't  look  after 
the  })irds  of  a  Sunday." 

"But,  mother,"  said  Marty,  "you  said  you'd 
give  half-a-crown  to  find  the  speckled  turkey's 
nest.  May  n't  I  have  the  half-crown  put  into 
my  money-box.^" 

"We'll  see  about  that,  my  lad,  if  you  walk 
along  now,  like  a  good  boy." 

The  father  and  mother  exchanged  a  signifi- 
cant glance  of  amusement  at  their  eldest- born's 
acuteness;  but  on  Tommy's  round  face  there 
was  a  cloud. 

"Mother,"  he  said,  half  crying,  "Marty's  got 
ever  so  much  more  money  in  his  box  nor  I've 
got  in  mine." 


CHURCH  28S 

"Munny,  me  want  half-a-toun  in  my  bots," 
said  Totty. 

"Hush,  hush,  hush!"  said  Mrs.  Poyser; 
*'  did  ever  anybody  hear  such  naughty  children  ? 
Nobody  shall  ever  see  their  money-boxes  any 
more,  if  they  don't  make  haste  and  go  on  to 
church." 

This  dreadful  threat  had  the  desired  effect, 
and  through  the  two  remaining  fields  the  three 
pair  of  small  legs  trotted  on  without  any  serious 
interruption,  notwithstanding  a  small  pond  full 
of  tadpoles  alias  "bull  heads,"  which  the  lads 
looked   at  wistfully. 

The  damp  hay  that  must  be  scattered  and 
turned  afresh  to-morrow  was  not  a  cheering: 
sight  to  Mr.  Poyser,  who  during  hay  and  corn 
harvest  had  often  some  mental  struggles  as  to 
the  benefits  of  a  day  of  rest;  but  no  temptation 
would  have  induced  him  to  carry  on  any  field 
work,  however  early  in  the  morning,  on  a  Sun- 
day; for  had  not  INIichael  Holdsworth  had  a 
pair  of  oxen  "sweltered"  while  he  was  plough- 
ing on  Good  Friday  ?  That  was  a  demonstra- 
tion that  work  on  sacred  days  was  a  wicked 
thing;  and  with  wickedness  of  any  sort  Martin 
Poyser  was  quite  clear  that  he  would  have  noth- 
ing to  do,  since  money  got  by  such  means  would 
never  prosper. 

"It  a'most  makes  your  fingers  itch  to  be  at 
the  hay  now  the  sun  shines  so,"  he  observed,  as 
they  passed  through  the  "Big  Meadow."  "But 
it's  poor  foolishness  to  think  o'  saving  by  going 
against  your  conscience.  There's  that  Jim 
Wakefield,  as  they  used  to  call  'Gentleman 
Wakefield,'  used  to  do  the  same  of  a  Sunday 


284  ADAM   BEDE 

as  o'  week-days,  and  took  no  heed  to  right  or 
wrong,  as  if  there  was  nayther  God  nor  devil. 
An'  what's  he  come  to?  Why,  I  saw  him  my- 
self last  market-day  a-carrying  a  basket  wi' 
oranges  in   't." 

"Ah,  to  be  sure,"  said  Mrs.  Poyser,  em- 
phatically, "you  make  but  a  poor  trap  to  catch 
luck  if  you  go  and  bait  it  wi'  wickedness.  The 
money  as  is  got  so  's  like  to  burn  holes  i'  your 
pocket.  I'd  niver  wish  us  to  leave  our  lads  a 
sixpence  l)ut  what  was  got  i'  the  rightful  way. 
And  as  for  the  weather,  there's  One  above 
makes  it,  and  we  must  put  up  wi'  't:  it's  noth- 
ing of  a  plague  to  what  the  wenches  are." 

Notwithstanding  the  interruption  in  their 
walk,  the  excellent  habit  which  Mrs.  Poyser's 
clock  had  of  taking  time  by  the  forelock  had 
secured  their  arrival  at  the  village  while  it  was 
still  a  quarter  to  two,  though  almost  every  one 
who  meant  to  go  to  church  was  already  within 
the  churchyard  gates.  Those  who  stayed  at 
home  were  chiefly  mothers,  like  Timothy's  Bess, 
who  stood  at  her  own  door  nursing  her  baby, 
and  feeling  as  women  feel  in  that  position,  — 
that  nothing  else  can  be  expected  of  them. 

It  was  not  entirely  to  see  Thias  Bede's  funeral 
that  the  people  were  standing  about  the  church- 
yard so  long  before  service  began;  that  was 
their  common  practice.  The  women,  indeed, 
usually  entered  the  church  at  once,  and  the 
farmers'  wives  talked  in  an  undertone  to  each 
other,  over  the  tall  pews,  about  their  illnesses 
and  the  total  failure  of  doctor's  stuff,  recom- 
mending dandelion-tea  and  other  home-made 
specifics  as  far  preferable;    about  the  servants, 


CHURCH  285 

and  their  growing  exorbitance  as  to  wages, 
whereas  the  quality  of  their  services  dechned 
from  year  to  year,  and  there  was  no  girl  now- 
adays to  be  trusted  any  further  than  you  could 
see  her;  about  the  bad  price  Mr.  Dingall,  the 
Treddleston  grocer,  was  giving  for  butter,  and 
the  reasonable  doubts  that  might  be  held  as  to 
his  solvency,  notwithstanding  that  Mrs.  Dingall 
was  a  sensible  woman,  and  they  were  all  sorry 
for  her,  lor  she  had  very  good  kin.  Meantime 
the  men  lingered  outside;  and  hardly  any  of 
them  except  the  singers,  who  had  a  humming 
and  fragmentary  rehearsal  to  go  through,  en- 
tered the  church  until  Mr.  Irwine  was  in  the 
desk.  They  saw  no  reason  for  that  premature 
entrance,  —  what  could  they  do  in  church  if 
they  were  there  before  service  began  ?  —  and 
they  did  not  conceive  that  any  power  in  the 
universe  could  take  it  ill  of  them  if  they  stayed 
out  and  talked  a  little  about  "bus'ness." 

Chad  Cranage  looks  like  quite  a  new  ac- 
quaintance to-day,  for  he  has  got  his  clean 
Sunday  face,  which  always  makes  his  little 
granddaughter  cry  at  him  as  a  stranger.  But 
an  experienced  eye  would  have  fixed  on  him 
at  once  as  the  village  blacksmith,  after  seeing 
the  humble  deference  with  which  the  big  saucy 
fellow  took  off  his  hat  and  stroked  his  hair  to 
the  farmers;  for  Chad  was  accustomed  to  say 
that  a  working  man  must  hold  a  candle  to  — 
a  personage  understood  to  be  as  black  as  he 
was  himself  on  week-days;  by  which  evil- 
sounding  rule  of  conduct  he  meant  what  was, 
after  all,  rather  virtuous  than  otherwise,  namely 
that  men  who  had  horses  to  be  shod  must  be 


286  ADAM   BEDE 

treated  with  respect.  Chad  and  the  rougher 
sort  of  workmen  kept  aloof  from  the  grave 
under  the  white  thorn,  where  the  burial  was 
going  forward;  but  Sandy  Jim  and  several  of 
the  farm-labourers  made  a  group  round  it,  and 
stood  with  their  hats  off,  as  fellow- mourners 
with  the  mother  and  sons.  Others  held  a  mid- 
way position,  sometimes  watching  the  group 
at  the  grave,  sometimes  listening  to  the  conver- 
sation of  the  farmers,  who  stood  in  a  knot  near 
the  church  door,  and  were  now  joined  by  Martin 
Poyser,  while  his  family  passed  into  the  church. 
On  the  outside  of  this  knot  stood  Mr.  Casson, 
the  landlord  of  the  Donnithorne  Arms,  in  his 
most  striking  attitude,  —  that  is  to  say,  with 
the  forefinger  of  his  right  hand  thrust  between 
the  buttons  of  his  waistcoat,  his  left  hand  in  his 
breeches- pocket,  and  his  head  very  much  on  one 
side;  looking,  on  the  whole,  like  an  actor  who 
has  only  a  monosyllabic  part  intrusted  to  him, 
but  feels  sure  that  the  audience  discern  his  fitness 
for  the  leading  business;  curiously  in  contrast 
with  old  Jonathan  Burge,  who  held  his  hands 
behind  him,  and  leaned  forward  coughing  asth- 
matically,  with  an  inward  scorn  of  all  knowing- 
ness  that  could  not  be  turned  into  cash.  The 
talk  was  in  rather  a  lower  tone  than  usual  to-day, 
hushed  a  little  by  the  sound  of  Mr.  Irwine's 
voice  reading  the  final  prayers  of  the  burial- 
service.  They  had  all  had  their  word  of  pity 
for  poor  Thias,  but  now  they  had  got  upon  the 
nearer  subject  of  their  own  grievances  against 
Satchell,  the  Squire's  bailiff,  who  played  the 
part  of  steward  so  far  as  it  was  not  performed 
by  old  Mr.  Donnithorne  himself,  for  that  gen- 


CHURCH  287 

tleman  had  the  meanness  to  receive  his  own 
rents  and  make  bargains  about  his  own  timber. 
This  subject  of  conversation  was  an  additional 
reason  for  not  being  loud,  since  Satchell  him- 
self might  presently  be  walking  up  the  paved 
road  to  the  church  door.  And  soon  they 
became  suddenly  silent;  for  Mr.  Irwine's 
voice  had  ceased,  and  the  group  round  the 
white  thorn  was  dispersing  itself  towards  the 
church. 

They  all  moved  aside,  and  stood  with  their 
hats  off,  while  Mr.  Irwine  passed.  Adam  and 
Seth  were  coming  next,  with  their  mother  be- 
tween them ;  for  Joshua  Rann  officiated  as  head 
sexton  as  well  as  clerk,  and  was  not  yet  ready  to 
follow  the  Rector  into  the  vestry.  But  there 
was  a  pause  before  the  three  mourners  came  on : 
Lisbeth  had  turned  round  to  look  again  towards 
the  grave !  Ah !  there  was  nothing  now  but  the 
brown  earth  under  the  white  thorn.  Yet  she 
cried  less  to-day  than  she  had  done  any  day 
since  her  husband's  death:  along  with  all  her 
grief  there  was  mixed  an  unusual  sense  of  her 
own  importance  in  having  a  "burial,"  and  in 
Mr.  Irwine's  reading  a  special  service  for  her 
husband;  and  besides,  she  knew  the  funeral 
psalm  was  going  to  be  sung  for  him.  She  felt 
this  counter-excitement  to  her  sorrow  still  more 
strongly  as  she  walked  with  her  sons  towards 
the  church  door,  and  saw  the  friendly,  sympa- 
thetic nods  of  their  fellow-parishioners. 

The  mother  and  sons  passed  into  the  church, 
and  one  by  one  the  loiterers  followed,  though 
some  still  lingered  without;  the  sight  of  Mr. 
Donnithorne's    carriage,    which    was    winding 


288  ADAM   BEDE 

slowly  up  the  hill,  perhaps  helping  to  make 
them  feel  that  there  was  no  need  for  haste. 

But  presently  the  sound  of  the  bassoon  and  the 
key- bugles  burst  forth ;  the  evening  hymn,  which 
always  opened  the  service,  had  begun,  and  every 
one  must  now  enter  and  take  his  place. 

I  cannot  say  that  the  interior  of  Hayslope 
Church  was  remarkable  for  anything  except  for 
the  gray  age  of  its  oaken  pews,  —  great  square 
pews  mostly,  ranged  on  each  side  of  a  narrow 
aisle.  It  was  free,  indeed,  from  the  modern 
blemish  of  galleries.  The  choir  had  two  nar- 
row pews  to  themselves  in  the  middle  of  the 
right-hand  row,  so  that  it  was  a  short  process 
for  Joshua  Rann  to  take  his  place  among  them 
as  principal  bass,  and  return  to  his  desk  after 
the  singing  was  over.  The  pulpit  and  desk, 
gray  and  old  as  the  pews,  stood  on  one  side  of 
the  arch  leading  into  the  chancel,  which  also 
had  its  gray  square  pews  for  Mr.  Donnithorne's 
family  and  servants.  Yet  I  assure  you  these 
gray  pews,  with  the  buff- washed  walls,  gave  a 
very  pleasing  tone  to  this  shabby  interior,  and 
agreed  extremely  well  with  the  ruddy  faces 
and  bright  waistcoats.  And  there  were  liberal 
touches  of  crimson  toward  the  chancel,  for  the 
pulpit  and  Mr.  Donnithorne's  own  pew  had 
handsome  crimson  cloth  cushions;  and,  to  close 
the  vista,  there  was  a  crimson  altar-cloth,  em- 
broidered with  golden  rays  by  Miss  Lydia's  own 
hand. 

But  even  without  the  crimson  cloth,  the  effect 
must  have  been  warm  and  cheering  when  Mr. 
Irwine  was  in  the  desk,  looking  benignly  round 
on  that  simple  congregation,  —  on  the  hardy 


CHURCH  289 

old  men,  with  bent  knees  and  shoulders,  per- 
haps,  but  with  vigour  left  for  much  hedge- 
clipping  and  thatching;  on  the  tall,  stalwart 
frames  and  roughly  cut  bronzed  faces  of  the 
stone-cutters  and  carpenters;  on  the  half-dozen 
well-to-do  farmers,  with  their  apple- cheeked 
families;  and  on  the  clean  old  women,  mostly 
farm- labourers'  waives,  with  their  bit  of  snow- 
white  cap-border  under  their  black  bonnets, 
and  with  their  withered  arms,  bare  from  the 
elbow,  folded  passively  over  their  chests.  For 
none  of  the  old  people  held  books,  —  why 
should  they  ?  not  one  of  them  could  read. 
But  they  knew  a  few  "good  words"  by  heart, 
and  their  withered  lips  now  and  then  moved 
silently,  following  the  service  without  any  very 
clear  comprehension  indeed,  but  with  a  simple 
faith  in  its  efficacy  to  ward  off  harm  and  bring 
blessing.  And  now  all  faces  were  visible,  for 
all  were  standing  up,  —  the  little  children  on 
the  seats  peeping  over  the  edge  of  the  gray  pews, 
while  good  Bishop  Ken's  evening  hymn  was 
being  sung  to  one  of  those  lively  psalm- tunes 
which  died  out  with  the  last  generation  of  rectors 
and  choral  parish- clerks.  Melodies  die  out, 
like  the  pipe  of  Pan,  with  the  ears  that  love 
them  and  listen  for  them.  Adam  was  not  in 
his  usual  place  among  the  singers  to-day,  for  he 
sat  with  his  mother  and  Seth,  and  he  noticed 
with  surprise  that  Bartle  Massey  was  absent 
too:  all  the  more  agreeable  for  Mr.  Joshua 
Rann,  who  gave  out  his  bass  notes  with  unusual 
complacency,  and  threw  an  extra  ray  of  severity 
into  the  glances  he  sent  over  his  spectacles  at 
the  recusant  Will  Maskery. 

VOL.  I  — 19 


^90  ADAM   BEDE 

I  beseech  you  to  imagine  Mr.  Irwine  looking 
round  on  this  scene,  in  his  ample  white  surplice, 
that  became  him  so  well,  with  his  powdered  hair 
thrown  back,  his  rich  brown  complexion,  and 
his  finely  cut  nostril  and  upper  lip;  for  there 
was  a  certain  virtue  in  that  benignant  yet  keen 
countenance,  as  there  is  in  all  human  faces 
from  which  a  generous  soul  beams  out.  And 
over  all  streamed  the  delicious  June  sunshine 
through  the  old  windows,  with  their  desultory 
patches  of  yellow,  red,  and  blue,  that  threw 
pleasant  touches  of  colour  on  the  opposite  wall. 

I  think,  as  Mr.  Irwine  looked  round  to-day, 
his  eyes  rested  an  instant  longer  than  usual  on 
the  square  pew  occupied  by  Martin  Poyser  and 
his  family;  and  there  was  another  pair  of  dark 
eyes  that  found  it  impossible  not  to  wander 
thither,  and  rest  on  that  round  ])ink-and-wliite 
figure.  But  Hetty  was  at  that  moment  quite 
careless  of  any  glances,  —  she  was  absorbed  in 
the  thought  that  Arthur  Donnithorne  would 
soon  be  coming  into  church,  for  the  carriage 
must  surely  be  at  the  church  gate  by  this  time. 
She  had  never  seen  him  since  she  parted  with 
him  in  the  wood  on  Thursday  evening,  and  oh! 
how  long  the  time  had  seemed!  Things  had 
gone  on  just  the  same  as  ever  since  that  even- 
ing; the  wonders  that  had  happened  then  had 
brought  no  changes  after  them;  they  were 
already  like  a  dream.  When  she  heard  the 
church  door  swinging,  her  heart  beat  so,  she 
dared  not  look  up.  She  felt  that  her  aunt  was 
courtesying;  she  courtesied  herself .  That  must 
be  old  Mr.  Donnithorne,  —  he  always  came 
first,  the  wrinkled,  small  old  man,  peering  round 


CHURCH  291 

with  short-sighted  glances  at  the  bowing  and 
courtesying  congregation;  then  she  knew  Miss 
Lydia  was  passing,  and  though  Hetty  liked  so 
much  to  look  at  her  fashionable  little  coal- 
scuttle bonnet,  with  the  wreath  of  small  roses 
round  it,  she  did  n't  mind  it  to-day.  But  there 
were  no  more  courtesies  —  no,  he  was  not  come; 
she  felt  sure  there  was  nothing  else  passing  the 
pew  door  but  the  housekeeper's  black  bonnet, 
and  the  lady's-maid's  beautiful  straw  that  had 
once  been  Miss  Lydia's,  and  then  the  powdered 
heads  of  the  butler  and  footman.  No,  he  was 
not  there ;  yet  she  would  look  now,  —  she  might 
be  mistaken,  —  for,  after  all,  she  had  not  looked. 
So  she  lifted  up  her  eyelids,  and  glanced  timidly 
at  the  cushioned  pew  in  the  chancel.  There 
was  no  one  but  old  Mr.  Donnithorne  rubbing 
his  spectacles  with  his  white  handkerchief,  and 
Miss  Lydia  opening  the  large  gilt-edged  prayer- 
book.  The  chill  disappointment  was  too  hard 
to  bear:  she  felt  herself  turning  pale,  her  lips 
trembling;  she  was  ready  to  cry.  Oh,  what 
should  she  do  ?  Everybody  would  know  the 
reason;  they  would  know  she  was  crying  be- 
cause Arthur  was  not  there.  And  Mr.  Craig, 
with  the  wonderful  hothouse  plant  in  his  button- 
hole, was  staring  at  her,  she  knew.  It  was 
dreadfully  long  before  the  General  Confession 
began,  so  that  she  could  kneel  down.  Two 
great  drops  would  fall  then;  but  no  one  saw 
them  except  good-natured  ^Vlolly,  for  her  aunt 
and  uncle  knelt  with  their  backs  towards  her. 
Molly,  unable  to  imagine  any  cause  for  tears  in 
church  except  faintness,  of  which  she  had  a 
vague  traditional  knowledge,  drew  out  of  her 


292  ADAM  BEDE 

pocket  a  queer  little  flat  blue  smelling-bottle, 
and  after  much  labour  in  pulling  the  cork  out, 
thrust  the  narrow  neck  against  Hetty's  nostrils. 
"It  donna  smell,"  she  whispered,  thinking  this 
was  a  great  advantage  which  old  salts  had  over 
fresh  ones:  they  did  you  good  without  biting 
your  nose.  Hetty  pushed  it  away  peevishly; 
but  this  little  flash  of  temper  did  what  the  salts 
could  not  have  done,  —  it  roused  her  to  wipe 
away  the  traces  of  her  tears,  and  try  with  all 
her  might  not  to  shed  any  more.  Hetty  had  a 
certain  strength  in  her  vain  little  nature:  she 
would  have  borne  anything  rather  than  be 
laughed  at,  or  pointed  at  with  any  other  feeling 
than  admiration;  she  would  have  pressed  her 
own  nails  into  her  tender  flesh  rather  than  peo- 
ple should  know  a  secret  she  did  not  want  them 
to  know. 

What  fluctuations  there  were  in  her  busy 
thoughts  and  feelings  while  Mr.  Irwine  was 
pronouncing  the  solemn  "Absolution"  in  her 
deaf  ears,  and  through  all  the  tones  of  petition 
that  followed!  Anger  lay  very  close  to  disap- 
pointment, and  soon  won  the  victory  over  the 
conjectures  her  small  ingenuity  could  devise  to 
account  for  Arthur's  absence  on  the  supposition 
that  he  really  wanted  to  come,  really  wanted  to 
see  her  again.  And  by  the  time  she  rose  from 
her  knees  mechanically,  because  all  the  rest 
were  rising,  the  colour  had  returned  to  her 
cheeks  even  with  a  heightened  glow,  for  she  was 
framing  little  indignant  speeches  to  herself, 
saying  she  hated  Arthur  for  giving  her  this  pain, 
—  she  would  like  him  to  suffer  too.  Yet  while 
this  selfish  tumult  was  going  on  in  her  soul,  her 


CHURCH  293 

eyes  were  bent  down  on  her  prayer-book,  and 
the  eyehds  with  their  dark  fringe  looked  as 
lovely  as  ever.  Adam  Bede  thought  so,  as  he 
glanced  at  her  for  a  moment  on  rising  from  his 
knees. 

But  Adam's  thoughts  of  Hetty  did  not  deafen 
him  to  the  service;  they  rather  blended  with 
all  the  other  deep  feelings  for  which  the  church 
service  was  a  channel  to  him  this  afternoon,  as 
a  certain  consciousness  of  our  entire  past  and 
our  imagined  future  blends  itself  with  all  our 
moments  of  keen  sensibility.  And  to  Adam  the 
church  service  was  the  best  channel  he  could 
have  found  for  his  mingled  regret,  yearning, 
and  resignation;  its  interchange  of  beseeching 
cries  for  help,  with  outbursts  of  faith  and 
praise,  —  its  recurrent  responses  and  the 
familiar  rhythm  of  its  collects  seemed  to  speak 
for  him  as  no  other  form  of  worship  could  have 
done;  as,  to  those  early  Christians  who  had 
worshipped  from  their  childhood  upward  in 
catacombs,  the  torchlight  and  shadows  must 
have  seemed  nearer  the  Divine  presence  than 
the  heathenish  daylight  of  the  streets.  The 
secret  of  our  emotions  never  lies  in  the  bare 
object,  but  in  its  subtle  relations  to  our  own 
past:  no  wonder  the  secret  escapes  the  unsym- 
pathizing  observer,  who  might  as  well  put  on 
his  spectacles  to  discern  odours. 

But  there  was  one  reason  why  even  a  chance 
comer  would  have  found  the  service  in  Hay- 
slope  Church  more  impressive  than  in  most 
other  village  nooks  in  the  kingdom,  —  a  reason, 
of  which  I  am  sure  you  have  not  the  slightest 
suspicion.     It   was   the   reading   of  our  friend 


394  ADAM   BEDE 

Joshua  Rann.  Where  that  good  shoemaker 
got  his  notion  of  reading  from,  remained  a 
mystery  even  to  his  most  intimate  acquaint- 
ances. I  believe,  after  all,  he  got  it  chiefly 
from  Nature,  who  had  poured  some  of  her  music 
into  this  honest,  conceited  soul,  as  she  had  been 
known  to  do  into  other  narrow  souls  before 
his.  She  had  given  him,  at  least,  a  fine  bass 
voice  and  a  musical  ear;  but  I  cannot  positively 
say  whether  these  alone  had  sufficed  to  inspire 
him  with  the  rich  chant  in  which  he  delivered 
the  responses.  The  way  he  rolled  from  a  rich 
deep  forte  into  a  melancholy  cadence,  subsid- 
ing, at  the  end  of  the  last  word,  into  a  sort  of 
faint  resonance,  like  the  lingering  vibrations  of 
a  fine  violoncello,  I  can  compare  to  nothing  for 
its  strong,  calm  melancholy  but  the  rush  and 
cadence  of  the  wind  among  the  autumn  boughs. 
This  may  seem  a  strange  mode  of  speaking 
about  the  reading  of  a  parish-clerk,  —  a  man 
in  rusty  spectacles,  with  stubbly  hair,  a  large 
occiput,  and  a  prominent  crown.  But  that  is 
Nature's  way:  she  will  allow  a  gentleman  of 
splendid  physiognomy  and  poetic  aspirations  to 
sing  wofully  out  of  tune,  and  not  give  him  the 
slightest  hint  of  it;  and  takes  care  that  some 
narrow-browed  fellow,  trolling  a  ballad  in  the 
corner  of  a  pot-house,  shall  be  as  true  to  his 
intervals  as  a  bird. 

Joshua  himself  was  less  proud  of  his  reading 
than  of  his  singing,  and  it  was  always  with  a 
sense  of  heightened  importance  that  he  passed 
from  the  desk  to  the  choir.  Still  more  to-day: 
it  was  a  special  occasion;  for  an  old  man, 
familiar  to  all  the  parish,  had  died  a  sad  death, 


CHURCH  295 

—  not  in  his  bed,  a  circumstance  the  most  pain- 
ful to  the  mind  of  the  peasant,  —  and  now  the 
funeral  psalm  was  to  be  sung  in  memory  of  his 
sudden  departure.  Moreover,  Bartle  Massey 
was  not  at  church,  and  Joshua's  importance  in 
the  choir  suffered  no  eclipse.  It  was  a  solemn 
minor  strain  they  sang.  The  old  psalm- tunes 
have  many  a  wail  among  them,  and  the  words  — 

"  Thou  sweep'st  us  off  as  with  a  flood; 
We  vanish  hence  like  dreams  " — 

seemed  to  have  a  closer  application  than  usual 
in  the  death  of  poor  Thias.  The  mother  and 
sons  listened,  each  with  peculiar  feelings.  Lis- 
beth  had  a  vague  belief  that  the  psalm  was  do- 
ing her  husband  good ;  it  was  part  of  that  decent 
burial  which  she  would  have  thought  it  a  greater 
wrong  to  withhold  from  him  than  to  have 
caused  him  many  unhappy  days  while  he  was 
living.  The  more  there  was  said  about  her 
husband,  the  more  there  was  done  for  him, 
surely  tlie  safer  he  would  be.  It  was  poor  Lis- 
beth's  blind  way  of  feeling  that  human  love  and 
pity  are  a  ground  of  faith  in  some  other  love. 
Seth,  who  was  easily  touched,  shed  tears,  and 
tried  to  recall,  as  he  had  done  continually  since 
his  father's  death,  all  that  he  had  heard  of  the 
possibility  that  a  single  moment  of  conscious- 
ness at  the  last  might  be  a  moment  of  pardon 
and  reconcilement;  for  was  it  not  written  in  the 
very  psalm  they  were  singing,  that  the  Divine 
dealings  were  not  measured  and  circumscribed 
by  time  ?  Adam  had  never  been  unable  to  join 
in  a  psalm  before.  He  had  known  plenty  of 
trouble  and  vexation  since  he  had  been  a  lad; 


296  ADAM  BEDE 

but  this  was  the  first  sorrow  that  had  hemmed 
in  his  voice,  and  strangely  enough  it  was  sorrow 
because  the  chief  source  of  his  past  trouble  and 
vexation  was  forever  gone  out  of  his  reach.  He 
had  not  been  able  to  press  his  father's  hand  be- 
fore their  parting,  and  say,  "Father,  you  know 
it  was  all  right  between  us;  I  never  forgot  what 
I  owed  you  when  I  was  a  lad;  you  forgive  me 
if  I  have  been  too  hot  and  hasty  now  and  then!" 
Adam  thought  but  little  to-day  of  the  hard  work 
and  the  earnings  he  had  spent  on  his  father: 
his  thoughts  ran  constantly  on  what  the  old 
man's  feelings  had  been  in  moments  of  humilia- 
tion, when  he  had  held  down  his  head  before 
the  rebukes  of  his  son.  When  our  indignation 
is  borne  in  submissive  silence,  we  are  apt  to 
feel  twinges  of  doubt  afterwards  as  to  our  own 
generosity,  if  not  justice;  how  much  more  when 
the  oljject  of  our  anger  has  gone  into  everlasting 
silence,  and  we  have  seen  his  face  for  the  last 
time  in  the  meekness  of  death ! 

"Ah!  I  was  always  too  hard,"  Adam  said  to 
himself.  "It's  a  sore  fault  in  me  as  I'm  so 
hot  and  out  o'  patience  with  people  when  they 
do  wrong,  and  my  heart  gets  shut  up  against 
'em,  so  as  I  can't  bring  myself  to  forgive  'em. 
I  see  clear  enough  there's  more  pride  nor  love 
in  my  soul,  for  I  could  sooner  make  a  thousand 
strokes  with  tli'  hammer  for  my  father  than  bring 
myself  to  say  a  kind  word  to  him.  And  there 
went  plenty  o'  pride  and  temper  to  the  strokes, 
as  the  devil  will  be  having  his  finger  in  what  we 
call  our  duties  as  well  as  our  sins.  Mayhap 
the  best  thing  I  ever  did  in  my  life  was  only 
doing  what  was  easiest  for  myself.     It's  allays 


CHURCH  297 

been  easier  for  me  to  work  nor  to  sit  still;  but 
the  real  tough  job  for  me  'ud  be  to  master  my 
own  will  and  temper,  and  go  right  against  my 
own  pride.  It  seems  to  me  now,  if  I  was  to 
find  father  at  home  to-night,  I  should  behave 
different;  but  there's  no  knowing,  —  perhaps 
nothing  'ud  be  a  lesson  to  us  if  it  did  n't  come 
too  late.  It 's  well  we  should  feel  as  life  's  a 
reckoning  we  can't  make  twice  over;  there's 
no  real  making  amends  in  this  world,  any  more 
nor  you  can  mend  a  wrong  subtraction  by  doing 
your  addition  right." 

This  was  the  key-note  to  which  Adam's 
thoughts  had  perpetually  returned  since  his 
father's  death,  and  the  solemn  wail  of  the 
funeral  psalm  was  only  an  influence  that 
brought  back  the  old  thoughts  with  stronger 
emphasis.  So  was  the  sermon,  which  Mr. 
Irwine  had  chosen  with  reference  to  Thias's 
funeral.  It  spoke  briefly  and  simply  of  the 
words,  "In  the  midst  of  life  we  are  in  death,"  — 
how  the  present  moment  is  all  we  can  call  our 
own  for  works  of  mercy,  of  righteous  dealing, 
and  of  family  tenderness:  all  very  old  truths; 
but  what  we  thought  the  oldest  truth  becomes 
the  most  startling  to  us  in  the  week  when  we 
have  looked  on  the  dead  face  of  one  who  has 
made  a  part  of  our  own  lives.  For  when  men 
want  to  impress  us  with  the  effect  of  a  new  and 
wonderfully  vivid  light,  do  they  not  let  it  fall  on 
the  most  familiar  objects,  that  we  may  meas- 
ure its  intensity  by  remembering  the  former 
dimness  ? 

Then  came  the  moment  of  the  final  blessing, 
when  the  forever  sublime  words,  "The  peace 


298  ADAM  BEDE 

of  God,  which  passeth  all  understanding," 
seemed  to  blend  with  the  calm  afternoon  sun- 
shine that  fell  on  the  bowed  heads  of  the  con- 
gregation; and  then  the  (juiet  rising,  the  mothers 
tying  on  the  bonnets  of  the  little  maidens  who 
had  slept  through  the  sermon,  the  fathers  col- 
lecting the  prayer-books,  until  all  streamed  out 
through  the  old  archway  into  the  green  church- 
yard, and  began  their  neighbourly  talk,  their 
simple  civilities,  and  their  invitations  to  tea;  for 
on  a  Sunday  every  one  was  ready  to  receive  a 
guest,  —  it  was  the  day  when  all  must  be  in 
their  best  clothes  and  their  best  humour. 

Mr.  and  Mrs.  Poyser  paused  a  minute  at 
the  church  gate:  they  were  waiting  for  Adam 
to  come  up,  not  being  contented  to  go  away 
without  saying  a  kind  word  to  the  widow  and 
her   sons. 

"Well,  Mrs.  Bede,"  said  Mrs.  Poyser,  as 
they  walked  on  together,  "you  must  keep  up 
your  heart;  husbands  and  wives  must  be  con- 
tent when  they've  lived  to  rear  their  children 
and  see  one  another's  hair  gray." 

"Ay,  ay,"  said  Mr.  Poyser;  "they  wonna 
have  long  to  wait  for  one  another  then,  anyhow. 
And  ye've  got  two  o'  the  strapping'st  sons  i' 
th'  country;  and  well  you  may,  for  I  remember 
poor  Thias  as  fine  a  broad-shouldered  fellow  as 
need  to  be;  and  as  for  you,  Mrs.  Bede,  why 
you're  straighter  i'  the  back  nor  half  the  young 
women  now." 

"Eh,"  said  Lisbeth,  "it's  poor  luck  for  the 
platter  to  wear  well  when  it's  broke  i'  two. 
The  sooner  I'm  laid  under  the  thorn  the  better. 
I'm  no  good  to  nobody  now." 


CHURCH  299 

Adam  never  took  notice  of  his  mother's  little 
unjust  plaints;  but  Seth  said:  "Nay,  mother, 
thee  mustna  say  so.  Thy  sons  'uU  never  get 
another  mother." 

"That's  true,  lad,  that's  true,"  said  Mr. 
Poyser;  "and  it's  wrong  on  us  to  give  way  to 
grief,  Mrs.  Bede;  for  it's  like  the  children  cryin' 
when  the  fathers  and  mothers  take  things 
from  'em.  There's  One  above  knows  better 
nor  us." 

"Ah,"  said  Mrs.  Poyser,  "an'  it's  poor  work 
allays  settin'  the  dead  above  the  livin'.  We 
shall  all  on  us  be  dead  some  time,  I  reckon,  — 
it  'ud  be  better  if  folks  'ud  make  much  on  us 
beforehand,  istid  o'  beginnin'  when  we  're 
gone.  It's  but  little  good  you'll  do  a- watering 
the  last  year's  crop." 

"Well,  Adam,"  said  Mr.  Poyser,  feeling  that 
his  wife's  words  were,  as  usual,  rather  incisive 
than  soothing,  and  that  it  would  be  well  to 
change  the  subject,  "you'll  come  and  see  us 
again  now,  I  hope.  I  hanna  had  a  talk  with 
you  this  long  while,  and  the  missis  here  wants 
you  to  see  what  can  be  done  with  her  best 
spinning-wheel,  for  it's  got  broke,  and  it'll  be 
a  nice  job  to  mend  it,  —  there'll  want  a  bit  o' 
turning.  You'll  come  as  soon  as  you  can  now, 
will  you  .^" 

Mr.  Poyser  paused  and  looked  round  while 
he  was  speaking,  as  if  to  see  where  Hetty  was; 
for  the  children  were  running  on  before. 
Hetty  was  not  without  a  companion,  and  she 
had,  besides,  more  pink  and  white  about  her 
than  ever;  for  she  held  in  her  hand  the  wonder- 
ful pink- and- white  hothouse  plant  with  a  very 


300  ADAM   BEDE 

long  name,  —  a  Scotch  name,  she  supposed, 
since  people  said  Mr.  Craig  the  gardener  was 
Scotch.  Adam  took  the  opportunity  of  look- 
ing round  too;  and  I  am  sure  you  will  not 
require  of  him  that  he  should  feel  any  vexation 
in  observing  a  pouting  expression  on  Hetty's 
face  as  she  listened  to  the  gardener's  small- 
talk.  Yet  in  her  secret  heart  she  was  glad  to 
have  him  by  her  side,  for  she  would  perhaps 
learn  from  him  how  it  was  Arthur  had  not 
come  to  church.  Not  that  she  cared  to  ask 
him  the  question,  but  she  hoped  the  informa- 
tion would  be  given  spontaneously;  for  Mr. 
Craig,  like  a  superior  man,  was  very  fond  of 
aivino;    information. 

Mr.  Craig  was  never  aware  that  his  conversa- 
tion and  advances  were  received  coldly,  for 
to  shift  one's  point  of  view  beyond  certain 
limits  is  impossible  to  the  most  liberal  and 
expansive  mind;  we  are  none  of  us  aware 
of  tlie  impression  we  produce  on  Brazilian 
monkeys  of  feeble  understanding,  —  it  is  pos- 
sible tliey  see  hardly  anything  in  us.  More- 
over, Mr.  Craig  was  a  man  of  sober  passions, 
and  was  already  in  his  tenth  year  of  hesitation 
as  to  the  relative  advantages  of  matrimony  and 
bachelorhood.  It  is  true  that  now  and  then, 
when  he  had  been  a  little  heated  by  an  extra 
glass  of  grog,  he  had  been  heard  to  say  of 
Hetty  that  the  "lass  was  well  enough,"  and 
that  "a  man  might  do  worse;"  but  on  con- 
vivial occasions  men  are  apt  to  express  them- 
selves   strongly. 

Martin  Poyser  held  Mr.  Craig  in  honour,  as 
a  man  who  "knew  his  buisness,"  and  who  had 


CHURCH  301 

great  lights  concerning  soils  and  compost;  but 
he  was  less  of  a  favourite  with  Mrs.  Poyser, 
who  had  more  than  once  said  in  confidence  to 
her  husband,  "You're  mighty  fond  o'  Craig; 
but  for  my  part,  I  think  he's  welly  like  a  cock 
as  thinks  the  sun's  rose  o'  purpose  to  hear  him 
crow."  For  the  rest,  Mr.  Craig  was  an  estim- 
able gardener,  and  was  not  without  reasons  for 
having  a  high  opinion  of  himself.  He  had  also 
high  shoulders  and  high  cheek-bones,  and 
hung  his  head  forward  a  little,  as  he  walked 
along  with  his  hands  in  his  breeches-pockets. 
I  think  it  was  his  pedigree  only  that  had  the 
advantage  of  being  Scotch,  and  not  his  "bring- 
ing up;"  for  except  that  he  had  a  stronger  burr 
in  his  accent,  his  speech  differed  little  from  that 
of  the  Loamshire  people  about  him.  But  a 
gardener  is  Scotch,  as  a  French  teacher  is 
Parisian. 

"Well,  Mr.  Poyser,"  he  said,  before  the 
good,  slow  farmer  had  time  to  speak,  "ye'U 
not  be  carrying  your  hay  to-morrow,  J 'm  think- 
ing: the  glass  sticks  at  'change,'  and  ye  may 
rely  upo'  my  word  as  we'll  ha'  more  downfall 
afore  twenty- four  hours  is  past.  Ye  see  that 
darkish- blue  cloud  there  upo'  the  'rizon,  — 
ye  know  what  I  mean  by  the  'rizon,  where  the 
land  and  sky  seems  to  meet  .^" 

"Ay,  ay,  I  see  the  cloud,"  said  Mr.  Poyser, 
"'rizon  or  no  'rizon.  It's  right  o'er  ]\Iike 
Holdsworth's  fallow,  and  a  foul  fallow  it  is." 

"Well,  you  mark  my  words,  as  that  cloud 
'uU  spread  o'er  the  sky  pretty  nigh  as  quick  as 
you'd  spread  a  tarpaulin  over  one  o'  your  hay- 
ricks.    It's   a  great   thing   to   ha'   studied   the 


302  ADAM   BEDE 

look  o'  the  clouds.  Lord  bless  you!  th'  meteo- 
rological almanecks  can  learn  me  nothing,  but 
there's  a  pretty  sight  o'  things  I  could  let  them 
up  to,  if  they'd  just  come  to  me.  And  how  are 
yoUy  Mrs.  Poyser  ?  —  thinking  o'  getherin'  the 
red  currants  soon,  I  reckon.  You'd  a  deal 
better  gether  'em  afore  they're  o'er  ripe,  \vi' 
such  weather  as  we've  got  to  look  forward  to. 
How  do  ye  do,  Mistress  Bede  ?""  Mr.  Craig  con- 
tinued, without  a  pause,  nodding  by  the  way  to 
Adam  and  Seth.  "  I  hope  y'  enjoyed  them 
spinach  and  gooseberries  as  I  sent  Chester  with 
th'  other  day.  If  ye  want  vegetables  while 
ye 're  in  trouble,  ye  know  where  to  come  to. 
It's  well  known  I'm  not  giving  otiier  folks' 
things  away;  for  when  I've  supplied  tiie  house, 
the  garden  's  my  own  spekilation,  and  it  isna 
every  man  th'  old  Squire  could  get  as  'ud  be 
equil  to  the  undertaking,  let  alone  asking 
whether  he'd  be  willing.  I've  got  to  run  my 
calkilation  fine,  I  can  tell  you,  to  make  sure  o' 
getting  back  the  money  as  1  pay  the  Squire. 
I  should  like  to  see  some  o'  them  fellows  as 
make  the  almanecks  looking  as  far  before  their 
noses  as  I  've  got  to  do  every  year  as  comes." 

"They  look  pretty  fur,  though,"  said  Mr. 
Poyser,  turning  his  head  on  one  side,  and 
speaking  in  rather  a  subdued,  reverential  tone. 
"Why,  what  could  come  truer  nor  that  pictur 
o'  the  cock  wi'  the  big  spurs,  as  has  got  its  head 
knocked  down  wi'  th'  anchor,  an'  th'  firin',  an' 
the  ships  behind  ?  Why,  that  pictur  was  made 
afore  Christmas,  and  yit  it 's  come  as  true  as  th' 
Bible.  Why,  th'  cock  's  France,  an'  th'  anchor 's 
Nelson,  —  an'  they  told  us  that  beforehand." 


CHURCH  303 

"Pee — ee-eh!"  said  Mr.  Craig.  *'A  man 
doesna  want  to  see  fur  to  know  as  th'  English 
'ull  beat  the  French.  Why,  I  know  upo'  good 
authority  as  it's  a  big  Frenchman  as  reaches 
five  foot  high,  an'  they  live  upo'  spoon-meat 
mostly.  I  knew  a  man  as  his  father  had  a  par- 
ticular knowledge  o'  the  French.  I  should 
like  to  know  what  them  grasshoppers  are  to 
do  against  such  fine  fellows  as  our  young  Cap- 
tain Arthur.  Why,  it  'ud  astonish  a  French- 
man only  to  look  at  him;  his  arm's  thicker 
nor  a  Frenchman's  body,  I'll  be  bound,  for 
they  pinch  theirsells  in  wi'  stays;  and  it's  easy 
enough,  for  they've  got  nothing  i'  their  insides." 

"Where  is  the  Captain,  as  he  wasna  at 
church  to-day.^"  said  Adam.  "I  was  talking 
to  him  o'  Friday,  and  he  said  nothing  about 
his  going  away." 

"Oh,  he's  only  gone  to  Eagledale  for  a  bit  o' 
fishing;  I  reckon  he'll  be  back  again  afore 
many  days  are  o'er,  for  he 's  to  be  at  all  th' 
arranging  and  preparing  o'  things  for  the 
comin'  o'  age  o'  the  30th  o'  July.  But  he's 
fond  o'  getting  away  for  a  bit  now  and  then. 
Him  and  th'  old  Squire  fit  one  another  like 
frost  and  flowers." 

Mr.  Crai^  smiled  and  winked  slowly  as  he 
made  this  last  observation;  but  the  subject 
was  not  developed  farther,  for  now  they  had 
reached  the  turning  in  the  road  where  Adam 
and  his  companions  must  say  "good-by." 
The  gardener,  too,  would  have  had  to  turn  off 
in  the  same  direction  if  he  had  not  accej)ted 
Mr.  Poyser's  invitation  to  tea.  Mrs.  Poyser 
dulv   seconded    the   invitation,    for   she    would 


304  ADAM   BEDE 

have  held  it  a  deep  disgrace  not  to  make  her 
neighbours  welcome  to  her  house:  personal 
likes  and  dislikes  must  not  interfere  with  that 
sacred  custom.  Moreover,  Mr.  Craig  had 
always  been  full  of  civilities  to  the  family  at 
the  Hall  Farm,  and  ^Irs.  Poyser  was  scrupu- 
lous in  declaring  that  she  had  "nothing  to  say 
again'  him,  on'y  it  was  a  pity  he  couldna  be 
hatched  o'er  again,  an'  hatched  different." 

So  Adam  and  Seth,  with  their  mother  be- 
tween them,  wound  their  way  down  to  the 
valley  and  up  again  to  the  old  house,  where  a 
saddened  memory  had  taken  the  place  of  a  long, 
long  anxiety,  —  where  Adam  would  never  have 
to  ask  again  as  he  entered,  "\Yhere  's  father  ?'' 

And  the  other  family  party,  with  Mr.  Craig 
for  company,  went  back  to  the  pleasant, 
bright  liouseplace  at  the  Hall  Farm,  —  all 
with  (piiet  minds,  excej)t  Hetty,  who  knew 
now  where  Arthur  was  gone,  but  was  only  the 
more  |)uzzled  and  uneasy.  For  it  appeared 
that  his  absence  was  quite  voluntary;  he  need 
not  have  gone,  —  he  would  not  have  gone  if  he 
had  wanted  to  see  her.  She  had  a  sickening 
sense  that  no  lot  could  ever  be  pleasant  to  her 
again  if  her  Thursday  night's  vision  was  not  to 
be  fulfilled;  and  in  this  moment  of  chill,  bare, 
wintry  disappointment  and  doubt,  she  looked 
towards  the  possibility  of  being  w^ith  Arthur 
again,  of  meeting  his  loving  glance,  and  hear- 
ing his  soft  words,  with  that  eager  yearning 
which  one  may  call  the  "growing  pain"  of 
passion. 


CHAPTER    III 

ADAM    ON    A    WORKING     DAY 


NOTWITHSTANDING  Mr.  Craig's 
prophecy,  the  dark-bhie  cloud  dispersed 
itself  without  having  produced  the  threat- 
ened consequences.  "The  weather,"  as  he  ob- 
served the  next  morning,  —  "  the  weather,  you 
see,  's  a  ticklish  thing,  an'  a  fool  'uU  hit  on  't 
sometimes  when  a  wise  man  misses;  that 's 
why  the  almanecks  get  so  much  credit.  It 's 
one  o'  them  chancy  things  as  fools  thrive  on." 

This  unreasonable  behaviour  of  the  weather, 
however,  could  displease  no  one  else  in  Hay- 
slope  besides  Mr.  Craig.  All  hands  were  to  be 
out  in  the  meadows  this  morning  as  soon  as  the 
dew  had  risen;  the  wives  and  daughters  did 
double  work  in  every  farmhouse,  that  the  maids 
might  give  their  help  in  tossing  the  hay;  and 
when  Adam  was  marching  along  the  lanes, 
with  his  basket  of  tools  over  his  shoulder,  he 
caught  the  sound  of  jocose  talk  and  ringing 
laughter  from  behind  the  hedges.  The  jocose 
talk  of  hay-makers  is  best  at  a  distance:  like 
those  clumsy  bells  round  the  cows'  necks,  it  has 
rather  a  coarse  sound  when  it  comes  close,  and 
may  even  grate  on  your  ears  painfully;  but 
heard  from  far  off,  it  mingles  very  prettily 
wdth  the  other  joyous  sounds  of  nature.  Men's 
muscles  move  better  when  their  souls  are  mak- 
ing merry  music,  though  their  merriment  is  of 

VOL.  I  —  20 


306  ADAM   BEDE 

a  poor  blundering  sort,  not  at  all  like  the  merri- 
ment of  birds. 

And  perhaps  there  is  no  time  in  a  summer's 
day  more  cheering  than  when  the  warmth  of 
the  sun  is  just  beginning  to  triumph  over  the 
freshness  of  the  morning,  —  when  there  is  just 
a  lingering  hint  of  early  coolness  to  keep  off 
languor  under  the  delicious  influence  of  warmth. 
The  reason  Adam  was  walking  along  the  lanes 
at  this  time  was  because  his  work  for  the  rest 
of  the  day  lay  at  a  country-house  about  three 
miles  off,  which  was  being  put  in  repair  for  the 
son  of  a  neighbouring  squire;  and  he  had  been 
busy  since  early  morning  with  the  packing  of 
panels,  doors,  and  chimney-pieces,  in  a  wagon 
which  was  now  gone  on  before  him,  while  Jon- 
athan Burge  himself  had  ridden  to  the  spot  on 
horseback,  to  await  its  arrival  and  direct  the 
workmen. 

This  little  walk  w^as  a  rest  to  Adam,  and  he 
w^as  unconsciously  under  the  charm  of  the  mo- 
ment. It  was  summer  morning  in  his  heart, 
and  he  saw  Hetty  in  the  sunshine,  —  a  sun- 
shine witliout  glare,  with  slanting  rays  that 
tremble  between  the  delicate  shadows  of  the 
leaves.  He  thought  yesterday,  when  he  put 
out  his  hand  to  her  as  they  came  out  of  church, 
that  there  was  a  touch  of  melancholy  kindness 
in  her  face,  such  as  he  had  not  seen  before,  and 
he  took  it  as  a  sign  that  she  had  some  sympathy 
with  his  family  trouble.  Poor  fellow!  that 
touch  of  melancholy  came  from  quite  another 
source;  but  how  was  he  to  know  ?  We  look  at 
the  one  little  woman's  face  we  love  as  we  look 
at  the  face  of  our  mother  earth,  and  see  all  sorts 


ADAM  ON   A  WORKING   DAY    307 

of  answers  to  our  own  yearnings.  It  was  im- 
possible for  Adam  not  to  feel  that  what  had 
happened  in  the  last  week  had  brought  the 
prospect  of  marriage  nearer  to  him.  Hitherto 
he  had  felt  keenly  the  danger  that  some  other 
man  might  step  in  and  get  possession  of  Hetty's 
heart  and  hand,  while  he  himself  was  still  in  a 
position  that  made  him  shrink  from  asking  her 
to  accept  him.  Even  if  he  had  had  a  strong 
hope  that  she  was  fond  of  him,  —  and  his  hope 
was  far  from  being  strong,  —  he  had  been  too 
heavily  burthened  with  other  claims  to  provide 
a  home  for  himself  and  Hetty,  —  a  home  such 
as  he  could  expect  her  to  be  content  with  after 
the  comfort  and  plenty  of  the  Farm.  Like  all 
strong  natures,  Adam  had  confidence  in  his 
ability  to  achieve  something  in  the  future;  he 
felt  sure  he  should  some  day,  if  he  lived,  be  able 
to  maintain  a  family,  and  make  a  good  broad 
path  for  himself;  but  he  had  too  cool  a  head 
not  to  estimate  to  the  full  the  obstacles  that 
were  to  be  overcome.  And  the  time  would  be 
so  long!  And  there  was  Hetty,  like  a  bright- 
cheeked  apple  hanging  over  the  orchard  wall, 
within  sight  of  everybody,  and  everybody  must 
long  for  her!  To  be  sure,  if  she  loved  him 
very  much,  she  would  be  content  to  wait  for 
him;  but  did  she  love  him.?  His  hopes  had 
never  risen  so  high  that  he  had  dared  to  ask 
her.  He  was  clear-sighted  enough  to  be  aware 
that  her  uncle  and  aunt  would  have  looked 
kindly  on  his  suit,  and  indeed  without  this  en- 
couragement he  would  never  have  persevered 
in  going  to  the  Farm;  but  it  was  impossible  to 
come  to  any  but  fluctuating  conclusions  about 


308  ADAM   BEDE 

Hetty's  feelings.  She  was  like  a  kitten,  and 
had  the  same  distractingly  pretty  looks,  that 
meant  nothing,  for  everybody  that  came  near 
her. 

But  now  he  could  not  help  saying  to  himself 
that  the  heaviest  part  of  his  burden  was  re- 
moved, and  that  even  before  the  end  of  another 
year  his  circumstances  might  be  brought  into 
a  shape  that  would  allow  him  to  think  of  marry- 
ing. It  would  always  be  a  hard  struggle  with 
his  mother,  he  knew:  she  would  be  jealous  of 
any  wife  he  might  choose,  and  she  had  set  her 
mind  especially  against  Hetty,  —  perhaps  for 
no  other  reason  than  that  she  suspected  Hetty 
to  be  the  woman  he  had  chosen.  It  would 
never  do,  he  feared,  for  his  mother  to  live  in 
the  same  house  with  him  when  he  w^as  married; 
and  yet  how  hard  she  would  think  it  if  he  asked 
her  to  leave  him!  Yes,  there  was  a  great  deal 
of  pain  to  be  gone  through  with  his  mother, 
but  it  was  a  case  in  which  he  must  make  her 
feel  that  his  will  was  strong,  —  it  would  be 
better  for  her  in  the  end.  For  himself,  he 
would  have  liked  that  they  should  all  live  to- 
gether till  Seth  was  married,  and  they  might 
have  built  a  bit  themselves  to  the  old  house, 
and  made  more  room.  He  did  not  like  "to 
part  wi'  th'  lad;"  they  had  hardly  ever  been 
separated  for  more  than  a  day  since  they  were 
born. 

But  Adam  had  no  sooner  caught  his  imagi- 
nation leaping  forward  in  this  way  —  making 
arrangements  for  an  uncertain  future  —  than 
he  checked  himself.  "A  pretty  building  I  'm 
making,  without  either  bricks  or  timber.     I  'ra 


ADAM   ON   A  WORKING  DAY    309 

up  i'  the  garret  a'ready,  and  have  n't  so  much 
as  dug  the  foundation."  Whenever  Adam 
was  strongly  convinced  of  any  proposition,  it 
took  the  form  of  a  principle  in  his  mind ;  it  was 
knowledge  to  be  acted  on,  as  much  as  the 
knowledge  that  damp  will  cause  rust.  Per- 
haps here  lay  the  secret  of  the  hardness  he  had 
accused  himself  of;  he  had  too  little  fellow- 
feeling  with  the  w^eakness  that  errs  in  spite  of 
foreseen  consequences.  Without  this  fellow- 
feeling,  how  are  we  to  get  enough  patience  and 
charity  towards  our  stumbling,  falling  com- 
panions in  the  long  and  changeful  journey  ? 
And  there  is  but  one  way  in  which  a  strong, 
determined  soul  can  learn  it,  —  by  getting  his 
heart-strings  bound  round  the  weak  and  erring, 
so  that  he  must  share  not  only  the  outward 
consequence  of  their  error,  but  their  inward 
suffering.  That  is  a  long  and  hard  lesson,  and 
Adam  had  at  present  only  learned  the  alpha- 
bet of  it  in  his  father's  sudden  death,  which,  by 
annihilating  in  an  instant  all  that  had  stimu- 
ated  his  indignation,  had  sent  a  sudden  rush 
of  thought  and  memory  over  what  had  claimed 
his  pity  and  tenderness. 

But  it  was  Adam's  strength,  not  its  correl- 
ative hardness,  that  influenced  his  meditations 
this  morning.  He  had  long  made  up  his  mind 
that  it  would  be  wrong  as  well  as  foolish  for  him 
to  marry  a  blooming  young  girl,  so  long  as  he 
had  no  other  prospect  than  that  of  growing 
poverty  with  a  growing  family.  And  his  sav- 
ings had  been  so  constantly  drawn  upon  (be- 
sides the  terrible  sweep  of  paying  for  Seth's 
substitute  in  the  militia),  that  he  had  not  enough 


310  ADAM   BEDE 

money  beforehand  to  furnish  even  a  small  cot- 
tage, and  keep  something  in  reserve  against  a 
rainy  day.  lie  had  good  hope  that  he  should 
be  "firmer  on  his  legs"  by  and  by;  but  he  could 
not  be  satisfied  with  a  vague  confidence  in  his 
arm  and  brain;  he  must  have  definite  plans, 
and  set  about  them  at  once.  The  partnership 
vi^ith  Jonathan  Burge  was  not  to  be  thought  of 
at  present,  —  there  were  things  implicitly  tacked 
to  it  that  he  could  not  accept;  but  Adam  thought 
that  he  and  Seth  might  carry  on  a  little  business 
for  themselves  in  addition  to  their  journey- 
man's work,  by  buying  a  small  stock  of  superior 
wood  and  making  articles  of  household  furni- 
ture, for  which  Adam  had  no  end  of  contriv- 
ances. Seth  might  gain  more  by  working  at 
separate  jobs  under  Adam's  direction  than  by 
his  journeyman's  work;  and  Adam,  in  his 
over-hours,  could  do  all  the  "nice"  work,  that 
required  peculiar  skill.  The  money  gained 
in  this  way,  with  the  good  wages  he  received 
as  foreman,  would  soon  enable  them  to  get  be- 
forehand with  the  world,  so  sparingly  as  they 
would  all  live  now.  No  sooner  had  this  little 
plan  shaped  itself  in  his  mind  than  he  began  to 
be  busy  with  exact  calculations  about  the  wood 
to  be  bought,  and  the  particular  article  of  fur- 
niture that  should  be  undertaken  first,  —  a 
kitchen  cupboard  of  his  own  contrivance,  with 
such  an  ingenious  arrangement  of  sliding- doors 
and  bolts,  such  convenient  nooks  for  stowing 
household  provender,  and  such  a  symmetrical 
result  to  the  eye,  that  every  good  housewife 
would  be  in  raptures  with  it,  and  fall  through 
all   the  gradations  of  melancholy  longing   till 


ADAM  ON   A  WORKING  DAY    311 

her  husband  promised  to  buy  it  for  her.  Adam 
pictured  to  himself  Mrs.  Poyser  examining  it 
with  her  keen  eye*  and  trying  in  vain  to  find 
out  a  deficiency;  and,  of  course,  close  to  Mrs. 
Poyser  stood  Hetty,  and  Adam  was  agam  be- 
guiled from  calculations  and  contrivances  into 
dreams  and  hopes.  Yes,  he  would  go  and  see 
her  this  evening,  —  it  was  so  long  smce  he  had 
been  at  the  Hall  Farm.  He  would  have  liked 
to  go  to  the  night-school,  to  see  why  Bar  tie 
Massey  had  not  been  at  church  yesterday,  for 
he  feared  his  old  friend  was  ill;  but  unless  he 
could  manage  both  visits,  this  last  must  be  put 
off  till  to-morrow,  —  the  desire  to  be  near 
Hetty,    and    to   speak   to   her   again,    was    too 

strong. 

As  he  made  up  his  mind  to  this,  he  was  com- 
ino-  very  near  to  the  end  of  his  walk,  within  the 
sound  of  the  hammers  at  work  on  the  refitting 
of  the  old  house.  The  sound  of  tools  to  a  clever 
workman  who  loves  his  work  is  like  the  tenta- 
tive sounds  of  the  orchestra  to  the  violinist  who 
has  to  bear  his  part  in  the  overture;  the  strong 
fibres  begin  their  accustomed  thrill,  and  what 
was  a  moment  before  joy,  vexation,  or  ambition, 
begins  its  change  into  energy.  All  passion  be- 
comes strength  when  it  has  an  outlet  from  the 
larrow  limits  of  our  personal  lot  in  the  labour 
of  our  right  arm,  the  cunning  of  our  right  hand, 
or  the  still,  creative  activity  of  our  thought. 
Look  at  Adam  through  the  rest  of  the  day,  as 
he  stands  on  the  scaft'olding  with  the  two-feet 
ruler  in  his  hand,  whistling  low  while  he  con- 
siders how  a  difficulty  about  a  floor-joist  or  a 
window-frame    is    to   be    overcome;    or   as   he 


312  ADAM  BEDE 

pushes  one  of  the  younger  workmen  aside,  and 
takes  his  place  in  upheaving  a  weight  of  timber, 
saying,  "Let  alone,  lad!  thee'st  got  too  much 
gristle  i'  thy  bones  yet;"or  as  he  fixes  his  keen 
black  eyes  on  the  motions  of  a  workman  on  the 
other  side  of  the  room,  and  warns  him  that  his 
distances  are  not  right.  Look  at  this  broad- 
shouldered  man  with  the  bare  muscular  arms, 
and  the  thick  firm  black  hair  tossed  about  like 
trodden  meadow-grass  whenever  he  takes  off 
his  paper- cap,  and  with  the  strong  barytone 
voice  bursting  every  now  and  then  into  loud 
and  solemn  psalm- tunes,  as  if  seeking  an  outlet 
for  superfluous  strength,  yet  presently  checking 
himself,  apparently  crossed  by  some  thought 
which  jars  with  the  singing.  Perhaps,  if  you 
had  not  been  already  in  the  secret,  you  might 
not  have  guessed  what  sad  memories,  what 
warm  afiection,  what  tender  fluttering  hopes, 
had  their  home  in  this  athletic  body  with  the 
broken  finger-nails,  —  in  this  rough  man,  who 
knew  no  better  lyi'ics  than  he  could  find  in  the 
Old  and  New  Version  and  an  occasional  hymn ; 
who  knew  the  smallest  possible  amount  of  pro- 
fane history;  and  for  whom  the  motion  and 
shape  of  the  earth,  the  course  of  the  sun,  and 
the  changes  of  the  seasons  lay  in  the  region  of 
mystery  just  made  visible  by  fragmentary 
knowledge.  It  had  cost  Adam  a  great  deal  of 
trouble,  and  work  in  over-hours,  to  know  what 
he  knew  over  and  above  the  secrets  of  his  handi- 
craft, and  that  acquaintance  with  mechanics 
and  fif^ures,  and  the  nature  of  the  materials  he 
worked  with,  which  was  made  easy  to  him  by 
inborn  inherited  faculty,  —  to  get  the  mastery 


ADAM   ON  A  WORKING   DAY    313 

of  his  pen,  and  write  a  plain  hand,  to  spell  with- 
out any  other  mistakes  than  must  in  fairness  be 
attributed  to  the  unreasonable  character  of 
orthography  rather  than  to  any  deficiency  in  the 
speller,  and,  moreover,  to  learn  his  musical 
notes  and  part- singing.  Besides  all  this,  he 
had  read  his  Bible,  including  the  apocryphal 
books:  "Poor  Richard's  Almanac,"  Taylor's 
"Holy  Living  and  Dying,"  "The  Pilgrim's 
Progress,"  with  Bunyan's  Life  and  "Holy 
War,"  a  great  deal  of  Bailey's  Dictionary, 
"Valentine  and  Orson,"  and  part  of  a  "His- 
tory of  Babylon,"  which  Bartle  INIassey  had 
lent  him.  He  might  have  had  many  more 
books  from  Bartle  Massey,  but  he  had  no  time 
for  reading  the  "commin  print,"  as  Lisbeth 
called  it,  so  busy  as  he  was  with  figures  in  all 
the  leisure  moments  which  he  did  not  fill  up 
with  extra  carpentry. 

Adam,  you  perceive,  was  by  no  means  a  mar- 
vellous man,  nor,  properly  speaking,  a  genius, 
yet  I  will  not  pretend  that  his  was  an  ordinary 
character  among  workmen;  and  it  would  not 
be  at  all  a  safe  conclusion  that  the  next  best 
man  you  may  happen  to  see  with  a  basket  of 
tools  over  his  shoulder  and  a  paper  cap  on  his 
head  has  the  strong  conscience  and  the  strong 
sense,  the  blended  susceptibility  and  self-com- 
mand, of  our  friend  Adam.  He  was  not  an 
averao^e  man.  Yet  such  men  as  he  are  reared 
here  and  there  in  every  generation  of  our  peas- 
ant artisans,  —  with  an  inheritance  of  affections 
nurtured  by  a  simple  family  life  of  common 
need  and  common  industry,  and  an  inheritance 
of  faculties  trained  in  skilful,  courageous  labour ; 


314  ADAM   BEDE 

they  make  their  way  upward,  rarely  as  geniuses, 
most  commonly  as  painstaking,  honest  men, 
with  the  skill  and  conscience  to  do  well  the 
tasks  that  lie  before  them.  Their  lives  have 
no  discernible  echo  beyond  the  neighbourhood 
where  they  dwelt;  but  you  are  almost  sure  to 
find  there  some  good  piece  of  road,  some  build- 
ing, some  application  of  mineral  produce,  some 
improvement  in  farming  practice,  some  reform 
of  parish  abuses,  with  which  their  names  are 
associated  by  one  or  two  generations  after  them. 
Their  employers  were  the  richer  for  them,  the 
work  of  their  hands  has  worn  well,  and  the  work 
of  their  brains  has  guided  well  the  hands  of 
other  men.  They  went  about  in  their  youth  in 
flannel  or  paper  caps,  in  coats  black  with  coal- 
dust  or  streaked  with  lime  and  red  paint;  in 
old  age  their  white  hairs  are  seen  in  a  place  of 
honour  at  church  and  at  market,  and  they  tell 
their  well-dressed  sons  and  daughters,  seated 
round  the  bright  hearth  on  winter  evenings, 
how  pleased  they  were  when  they  first  earned 
their  twopence  a-day.  Others  there  are  who 
die  poor,  and  never  put  off  the  workman's  coat 
on  week-days:  they  have  not  had  the  art  of 
getting  rich;  but  they  are  men  of  trust,  and 
when  they  die  before  the  work  is  all  out  of  them, 
it  is  as  if  some  main  screw  had  got  loose  in  the 
machine;  the  master  who  employed  them  says, 
"Where  shall  I  find  their  like.?" 


CHAPTER    IV 

ADAM    VISITS    THE     HALL    FARM 


A  DAM  came  back  from  his  work  in  the 
/-\    empty    wagon;     that   was    why   he   had 

"^  changed  his  clothes,  and  was  ready  to 
set  out  to  the  Hall  Farm  when  it  still  wanted  a 
quarter  to  seven. 

"  What's  thee  got  thy  Sunday  cloose  on  for  ?" 
said  Lisbeth,  complainingly,  as  he  came  down- 
stairs. "Thee  artna  goin'  to  th'  school  i'  thy 
best  coat  .^" 

"No,  mother,"  said  Adam,  quietly.  "I'm 
going  to  the  Hall  Farm,  but  mayhap  I  may  go 
to  the  school  after,  so  thee  mustna  wonder  if 
I'm  a  bit  late.  Seth  'uU  be  at  home  in  half  an 
hour,  —  he's  only  gone  to  the  village;  so  thee 
wutna   mind." 

"Eh,  an'  what's  thee  got  thy  best  cloose  on 
for  to  go  to  th'  Hall  Farm  ?  The  Poyser  folks 
see'd  thee  in  'em  yesterday,  I  warrand.  What 
dost  mean  by  turnin'  worki'day  into  Sunday 
a-that'n.^  It's  poor  keepin'  company  wi'  folks 
as  donna  like  to  see  thee  i'  thy  workin'  jacket." 

"  Good-by,  mother,  I  can't  stay,"  said  Adam, 
putting  on  his  hat  and  going  out. 

But  he  had  no  sooner  gone  a  few  paces  be- 
yond the  door  than  Lisbeth  became  uneasy  at 
the  thought  that  she  had  vexed  him.  Of  course, 
the  secret  of  her  objection  to  the  best  clothes 
was  her  suspicion  tliat  they  were  put  on  for 


316  ADAM  BEDE 

Hetty's  sake;  but  deeper  than  all  her  peevish- 
ness lay  the  need  that  her  son  should  love  her. 
She  hurried  after  him,  and  laid  hold  of  his  arm 
before  he  had  got  half-way  down  to  the  brook, 
and  said,  "Nay,  my  lad,  thee  wutna  go  away 
angered  wi'  thy  mother,  an'  her  got  nought  to 
do  but  to  sit  by  hersen  an'  think  on  thee?" 

"Nay,  nay,  mother,"  said  Adam,  gravely, 
and  standing  still  while  he  put  his  arm  on  her 
shoulder,  "I'm  not  angered.  But  I  wish,  for 
thy  own  sake,  thee'dst  be  more  contented  to  let 
me  do  what  I've  made  up  my  mind  to  do.  I'll 
never  be  no  other  than  a  good  son  to  thee  as 
long  as  we  live.  But  a  man  has  other  feelings 
besides  what  he  owes  to  's  father  and  mother; 
and  thee  oughtna  to  want  to  rule  over  me  body 
and  soul.  And  thee  must  make  up  thy  mind 
as  I'll  not  give  way  to  thee  where  I've  a  right 
to  do  what  I  like.  So  let  us  have  no  more 
words  about  it." 

"Eh,"  said  Lisbeth,  not  willing  to  show  that 
she  felt  the  real  bearing  of  Adam's  words,  "an' 
who  likes  to  see  thee  i'  thy  best  cloose  better  nor 
thy  mother.^  An'  when  thee'st  got  thy  face 
washed  as  clean  as  the  smooth  white  pibble, 
an'  thy  hair  combed  so  nice,  and  thy  eyes 
a-sparklin',  —  what  else  is  there  as  thy  old 
mother  should  like  to  look  at  half  so  well  ?  An' 
thee  sha't  put  on  thy  Sunday  cloose  w^hen  thee 
lik'st  for  me,  — I'll  ne'er  plague  thee  no  moor 
about  'n." 

"Well,  well;  good-by,  mother,"  said  Adam, 
kissing  her,  and  hurrying  away.  He  saw  there 
was  no  other  means  of  putting  an  end  to  the 
dialogue. 


A.DAM  VISITS   THE   HALL   FARM    317 

Lisbeth  stood  still  on  the  spot,  shading  her 
eyes  and  looking  after  him  till  he  was  quite  out 
of  sight.  She  felt  to  the  full  all  the  meaning 
that  had  lain  in  Adam's  words,  and,  as  she  lost 
sight  of  him  and  turned  back  slowly  into  the 
house,  she  said  aloud  to  herself,  —  for  it  was 
her  way  to  speak  her  thoughts  aloud  in  the  long 
days  when  her  husband  and  sons  were  at  their 
work,  —  "Eh,  he'll  be  tellin'  me  as  he's  goin' 
to  bring  her  home  one  o'  these  days;  an'  she'll 
be  missis  o'er  me,  and  I  mun  look  on,  belike, 
while  she  uses  the  blue-edged  platters,  and 
breaks  'em,  mayhap,  though  there's  ne'er  been 
one  broke  sin'  my  old  man  an'  me  bought  'em 
at  the  fair  twenty  'ear  come  next  Whissuntide. 
Eh!"  she  went  on,  still  louder,  as  she  caught  up 
her  knitting  from  the  table,  "but  she'll  ne'er 
knit  the  lads'  stockin's,  nor  foot  'em  nayther, 
while  I  live;  an'  when  I'm  gone,  he'll  bethink 
him  as  nobody  'uU  ne'er  fit's  leg  an'  foot  as  his 
old  mother  did.  She'll  know  nothin'  o'  nar- 
rowin'  an'  heelin',  I  warrand,  an'  she'll  make 
a  long  toe  as  he  canna  get's  boot  on.  That's 
what  comes  o'  marr'in'  young  wenches.  I  war 
gone  thirty,  an'  th'  feyther  too,  afore  we  war 
married;  an'  young  enough  too.  She'll  be  a 
poor  dratchell  by  then  she's  thirty,  a- marr'in' 
a-that'n,  afore  her  teeth's  all  come." 

Adam  walked  so  fast  that  he  was  at  the  yard- 
gate  before  seven.  Martin  Poyser  and  the 
grandfather  were  not  yet  come  in  from  the 
meadow:  every  one  was  in  the  meadow,  even 
to  the  black- and- tan  terrier,  - —  no  one  kept 
watch  in  the  yard  but  the  bull- dog;  and  when 
Adam   reached    the    house-door,    which    stood 


318  ADAM  BEDE 

wide  open,  he  saw  there  was  no  one  in  the  bright, 
clean  house- place.  But  he  guessed  where  Mrs. 
Poyser  and  some  one  else  would  be,  quite  within 
hearing;  so  he  knocked  on  the  door  and  said  in 
his  strong  voice,  "Mrs.  Poyser  within .P" 

"Come  in,  Mr.  Bede,  come  in,"  Mrs.  Poyser 
called  out  from  the  dairy.  She  always  gave 
Adam  this  title  when  she  received  him  in  her 
own  house.  "You  may  come  into  the  dairy  if 
you  will,  for  I  canna  justly  leave  the  cheese." 

Adam  walked  into  the  dairy,  where  Mrs. 
Poyser  and  Nancy  were  crushing  the  first  even- 
ing cheese. 

"Why,  you  might  think  you  war  come  to  a 
deadhouse,"  said  Mrs.  Poyser,  as  he  stood  in 
the  open  doorway.  "  They  're  all  i'  the  meadow ; 
but  Martin's  sure  to  be  in  afore  long,  for  they're 
leaving  the  hay  cocked  to-night,  ready  for  carry- 
ing first  thing  to-morrow.  I've  been  forced  t' 
have  Nancy  in,  upo'  'count  as  Hetty  must 
gether  the  red  currants  to-night;  the  fruit  allays 
ripens  so  contrairy,  just  when  every  hand's 
wanted.  An'  there's  no  trustin'  the  children 
to  gether  it,  for  they  put  more  into  their  own 
mouths  nor  into  the  basket;  you  might  as  well 
set  the  wasps  to  gether  the  fruit." 

Adam  longed  to  say  he  would  go  into  the 
garden  till  Mr.  Poyser  came  in;  but  he  was  not 
quite  courageous  enough,  so  he  said,  "I  could 
be  looking  at  your  spinning-wheel,  then,  and 
see  what  wants  doing  to  it.  Perhaps  it  stands 
in  the  house,  where  I  can  find  it.^" 

"No,  I've  put  it  away  in  the  right-hand 
parlour;  but  let  it  be  till  I  can  fetch  it  and  show 
it  you.     I'd  be  glad  now  if  you'd  go  into  the 


ADAM  VISITS   THE   HALL    FARM    319 

garden,  and  tell  Hetty  to  send  Totty  in.  The 
child  'ull  run  in  if  she's  told,  an'  I  know  Hetty's 
lettin'  her  eat  too  many  curran's.  I'll  be  much 
obliged  to  you,  Mr.  Bede,  if  you'll  go  and  send 
her  in;  an'  there's  the  York  and  Lankester 
roses  beautiful  in  the  garden  now, — you'll 
like  to  see  'em.  But  you'd  like  a  drink  o'  whey 
first,  p'r'aps;  I  know  you're  fond  o'  whey,  as 
most  folks  is  when  they  hanna  got  to  crush  it 
out." 

"Thank  you,  Mrs.  Poyser,"  said  Adam;  "a 
drink  o'  whey's  allays  a  treat  to  me.  I'd  rather 
have  it  than  beer  any  day." 

"Ay,  ay,"  said  Mrs.  Poyser,  reaching  a  small 
white  basin  that  stood  on  the  shelf,  and  dipping 
it  into  the  whey- tub,  "the  smell  o'  bread's 
sweet  t'  everybody  but  the  baker.  The  Miss 
Irwines  allays  say,  *  Oh,  Mrs.  Poyser,  I  envy 
you  your  dairy;  and  I  envy  you  your  chickens; 
and  what  a  beautiful  thing  a  farmhouse  is,  to 
be  sure!'  An'  I  say,  *  Yes;  a  farmhouse  is  a 
fine  thing  for  them  as  look  on,  an'  don't  know 
the  liftin',  an'  the  stannin',  and  the  worritin'  o' 
th'  inside,  as  belongs  to  't.' 

"Why,  Mrs.  Poyser,  you  wouldn't  like  to 
live  any  where  else  but  in  a  farmhouse,  so  well 
as  you  manage  it,"  said  Adam,  taking  the  basin; 
"  and  there  can  be  nothing  to  look  at  pleasanter 
nor  a  fine  milch  cow,  standing  up  to  'ts  knees  in 
pasture,  and  the  new  milk  frothing  in  the  pail, 
and  the  fresh  butter  ready  for  market,  and  the 
calves,  and  the  poultry.  Here's  to  your  health, 
and  may  you  allays  have  strength  to  look  after 
your  own  dairy,  and  set  a  pattern  t'  all  the 
farmers'  wives  in  the  country." 


320  ADAM   BEDE 

Mrs.  Poyser  was  not  to  be  caught  in  the  weak- 
ness of  smiling  at  a  compliment;  but  a  quiet 
complacency  overspread  her  face  like  a  stealing 
sunbeam,  and  gave  a  milder  glance  than  usual 
to  her  blue-gray  eyes,  as  she  looked  at  Adam 
drinking  the  whey.  Ah!  I  think  1  taste  that 
whey  now,  —  with  a  flavour  so  delicate  that  one 
can  hardly  distinguish  it  from  an  odour,  and 
with  that  soft  gliding  warmth  that  fills  one's 
imagination  with  a  still,  happy  dreaminess. 
And  the  light  music  of  the  dropping  whey  is  in 
my  ears,  mingling  with  the  twittering  of  a  bird 
outside  the  wire  network  window,  —  the  win- 
dow overlooking  the  garden,  and  shaded  by  tall 
Gueldres  roses. 

"Have  a  little  more,  Mr.  Bede.?"  said  Mrs. 
Poyser,  as  Adam  set  down  the  basin. 

"No,  thank  you;  I'll  go  into  the  garden  now, 
and  send  in  the  little  lass." 

"Ay,  do;  and  tell  her  to  come  to  her  mother 
in  the  dairy." 

Adam  walked  round  by  the  rick-yard,  at 
present  empty  of  ricks,  to  the  little  wooden 
gate  leading  into  the  garden,  —  once  the  well- 
tended  kitchen-garden  of  a  manor-house;  now, 
but  for  the  handsome  brick  wall  with  stone 
coping  that  ran  along  one  side  of  it,  a  true 
farmhouse  garden,  with  hardy  perennial  flow- 
ers, unpruned  fruit-trees,  and  kitchen  vegeta- 
bles growing  together  in  careless,  half- neglected 
abundance.  In  that  leafy,  flowery,  bushy  time, 
to  look  for  any  one  in  this  garden  was  like  play- 
ing at  "hide-and-seek."  There  were  the  tall 
hollyhocks  beginning  to  flower,  and  dazzle  the 
eye  with  their  pink,  white,  and  yellow;    there 


ADAM   VISITS   THE   HALL   FARM    321 

were  the  syringas  and  Gueldres  roses,  all  large 
and  disorderly  for  want  of  trimming ;  there  were 
leafy  walls  of  scarlet  beans  and  late  peas ;  there 
w^as  a  row  of  bushy  filberts  in  one  direction,  and 
in  another  a  huge  apple-tree  making  a  barren 
circle  under  its  low-spreading  boughs.  But 
what  signified  a  barren  patch  or  two  ?  The 
garden  was  so  large.  There  was  always  a 
superfluity  of  broad  beans,  —  it  took  nine  or 
ten  of  Adam's  strides  to  get  to  the  end  of  the 
uncut  grass  walk  that  ran  by  the  side  of  them; 
and  as  for  other  vegetables,  there  was  so  much 
more  room  than  was  necessary  for  them,  that 
in  the  rotation  of  crops  a  large  flourishing  bed 
of  groundsel  was  of  yearly  occurrence  on  one 
spot  or  other.  The  very  rose-trees,  at  which 
Adam  stopped  to  pluck  one,  looked  as  if  they 
grew  wild;  they  w^ere  all  huddled  together  in 
bushy  masses,  now  flaunting  with  wide-open 
petals,  almost  all  of  them  of  the  streaked  pink- 
and- white  kind,  which  doubtless  dated  from 
the  union  of  the  houses  of  York  and  Lancaster. 
Adam  was  wise  enough  to  choose  a  compact 
Provence  rose  that  peeped  out  half  smothered 
by  its  flaunting  scentless  neighbours,  and  held 
it  in  his  hand  —  he  thought  he  should  be  more 
at  ease  holding  something  in  his  hand  —  as  he 
walked  on  to  the  far  end  of  the  garden,  where  he 
remembered  there  was  the  largest  row  of  currant- 
trees,  not  far  oft'  from  the  great  yew-tree  arbour. 

But  he  had  not  gone  many  steps  beyond  the 
roses,  when  he  heard  the  shaking  of  a  bough, 
and  a  boy's  voice  saying  — 

"  Now,  then,  Totty,  hold  out  your  pinny,  — 
there  's  a  duck." 

VOL.  I  —  21 


322  ADAM   BEDE 

The  voice  came  from  the  boughs  of  a  tall 
cherry-tree,  where  Adam  had  no  difficulty  in 
discerning  a  small  blue-pinafored  figure  perched 
in  a  commodious  position  where  the  fruit  was 
thickest.  Doubtless  Totty  was  below,  behind 
the  screen  of  peas.  Yes  —  with  her  bonnet 
hanging  down  her  back,  and  her  fat  face,  dread- 
fully smeared  with  red  juice,  turned  up  towards 
the  cherry-tree,  while  she  held  her  little  round 
hole  of  a  mouth  and  her  red-stained  pinafore  to 
receive  the  promised  downfall.  I  am  sorry  to 
say,  more  than  half  the  cherries  that  fell  were 
hard  and  yellow  instead  of  juicy  and  red;  but 
Totty  spent  no  time  in  useless  regrets,  and  she 
was  already  sucking  the  third  juiciest  when 
Adam  said:  "There  now,  "^I'otty,  you've  got 
your  cherries.  Run  into  the  house  with  'em 
to  mother, — ^  she  wants  you, — -she's  in  the 
dairy.  Run  in  this  minute,  —  there's  a  good 
little  girl." 

He  lifted  her  up  in  his  strong  arms  and 
kissed  her  as  he  spoke,  —  a  ceremony  which 
Totty  regarded  as  a  tiresome  interruption  to 
cherry- eating;  and  when  he  set  her  down  she 
trotted  off  quite  silently  towards  the  house, 
sucking  her  cherries  as  she  went  along. 

"Tommy,  my  lad,  take  care  you're  not  shot 
for  a  little  thieving  bird,"  said  Adam,  as  he 
walked  on  towards  the  currant-trees. 

He  could  see  there  was  a  large  basket  at  the 
end  of  the  row :  Hetty  would  not  be  far  off,  and 
Adam  already  felt  as  if  she  were  looking  at  him. 
Yet  when  he  turned  the  corner  she  was  stand- 
ing with  her  back  towards  him,  and  stooping 
to  gather  the  low-hanging  fruit.     Strange  that 


ADAM  VISITS   THE   HALL   FARM    823 

she  had  not  heard  him  coming!  perhaps  it  was 
because  she  was  making  the  leaves  rustle.  She 
started  when  she  became  conscious  that  some 
one  was  near,  —  started  so  violently  that  she 
dropped  the  basin  with  the  currants  in  it,  and 
then,  when  she  saw  it  was  Adam,  she  turned 
from  pale  to  deep  red.  That  blush  made  his 
heart  beat  with  a  new  happiness.  Hetty  had 
never  blushed  at  seeing  him  before. 

"I  frightened  you,"  he  said,  with  a  delicious 
sense  that  it  did  n't  signify  what  he  said,  since 
Hetty  seemed  to  feel  as  much  as  he  did;  "let 
Tne  pick  the  currants  up." 

That  was  soon  done,  for  they  had  only  fallen 
in  a  tangled  mass  on  the  grass-plot;  and  Adam, 
as  he  rose  and  gave  her  the  basin  again,  looked 
straight  into  her  eyes  with  the  subdued  tender- 
ness that  belongs  to  the  first  moments  of  hope- 
ful love. 

Hetty  did  not  turn  away  her  eyes;  her  blush 
had  subsided,  and  she  met  his  glance  with  a 
quiet  sadness,  which  contented  Adam,  because 
it  was  so  unlike  anything  he  had  seen  in  her 
before. 

"There's  not  many  more  currants  to  get," 
she  said;    "I  shall  soon  ha'  done  now." 

"I'll  help  you,"  said  Adam;  and  he  fetched 
the  large  basket,  which  was  nearly  full  of  cur- 
rants, and  set  it  close  to  them. 

Not  a  word  more  was  spoken  as  they  gathered 
the  currants.  Adam's  heart  was  too  full  to 
speak,  and  he  thought  Hetty  knew  all  that  was 
in  it.  She  was  not  indifferent  to  his  presence, 
after  all;  she  had  blushed  when  she  saw  him, 
and  then  there  was  that  touch  of  sadness  about 


324  ADAM  BEDE 

her  which  must  surely  mean  love,  since  it  was 
the  opposite  of  her  usual  manner,  which  had 
often  impressed  him  as  indifference.  And  he 
could  glance  at  her  continually  as  she  bent  over 
the  fruit,  while  the  level  evening  sunbeams 
stole  through  the  thick  apple-tree  boughs,  and 
rested  on  her  round  cheek  and  neck  as  if  they 
too  were  in  love  with  her.  It  was  to  Adam 
the  time  that  a  man  can  least  forget  in  after- 
life, —  the  time  when  he  believes  that  the  first 
woman  he  has  ever  loved  betrays  by  a  slight 
something  —  a  word,  a  tone,  a  glance,  the 
quivering  of  a  lip  or  an  eyelid  —  that  she  is  at 
least  beginning  to  love  him  in  return.  The 
sign  is  so  slight,  it  is  scarcely  perceptible  to  the 
ear  or  eye,  —  he  could  describe  it  to  no  one,  — 
it  is  a  mere  feather- touch,  yet  it  seems  to  have 
changed  his  wlioie  being,  to  have  merged  an 
uneasy  yearning  into  a  delicious  unconscious- 
ness of  everything  but  the  present  moment.  So 
much  of  our  early  gladness  vanishes  utterly 
from  our  memory:  we  can  never  recall  the  joy 
with  which  we  laid  our  heads  on  our  mother's 
bosom  or  rode  on  our  father's  back  in  childhood; 
doubtless  that  joy  is  wrought  up  into  our  nature, 
as  the  sunlight  of  long- past  mornings  is  wrought 
up  in  the  soft  mellowness  of  the  apricot;  but 
it  is  gone  forever  from  our  imagination,  and  we 
can  only  believe  in  the  joy  of  childhood.  But 
the  first  glad  moment  in  our  first  love  is  a  vision 
which  returns  to  us  to  the  last,  and  brings  with 
it  a  thrill  of  feeling  intense  and  special  as  the 
recurrent  sensation  of  a  sweet  odour  breathed 
in  a  far-off  hour  of  happiness.  It  is  a  memory 
that  gives  a  more  exquisite  touch  to  tenderness. 


ADAM  VISITS   THE   HALL    FARM    325 

that  feeds  the  madness  of  jealousy,  and  adds 
the  last  keenness  to  the  agony  of  despair. 

Hetty  bending  over  the  red  bunches,  the  level 
rays  piercing  tlie  screen  of  apple-tree  boughs, 
the  length  of  bushy  garden  beyond,  his  own 
emotion  as  he  looked  at  her  and  believed  that 
she  was  thinking  of  him,  and  that  there  was  no 
need  for  them  to  talk,  —  Adam  remembered 
it  all  to  the  last  moment  of  his  life. 

And  Hetty  ?  You  know  quite  well  that  Adam 
was  mistaken  about  her.  Like  many  other 
men,  he  thought  the  signs  of  love  for  another 
were  signs  of  love  towards  himself.  When 
Adam  was  approaching  unseen  by  her,  she  was 
absorbed  as  usual  in  thinking  and  wondering 
about  Arthur's  possible  return:  the  sound  of 
any  man's  footstep  would  have  affected  her 
just  in  the  same  way,  —  she  would  have  felt  it 
might  be  Arthur  before  she  had  time  to  see, 
and  the  blood  that  forsook  her  cheek  in  the 
agitation  of  that  momentary  feeling  would  have 
rushed  back  again  at  the  sight  of  any  one  else 
just  as  much  as  at  the  sight  of  Adam.  He  was 
not  wrong  in  thinking  that  a  change  had  come 
over  Hetty:  the  anxieties  and  fears  of  a  first 
passion,  with  which  she  was  trembling,  had 
become  stronger  than  vanity,  had  given  her 
for  the  first  time  that  sense  of  helpless  depend- 
ence on  another's  feeling  which  awakens  the 
clinging,  deprecating  womanhood  even  in  the 
shallowest  girl  that  can  ever  experience  it,  and 
creates  in  her  a  sensibility  to  kindness  which 
found  her  quite  hard  before.  For  the  first 
time  Hetty  felt  that  there  was  something  sooth- 
ing to  her  in  Adam's  timid  yet  manly  tender- 


326  ADAM   BEDE 

ness:  she  wanted  to  be  treated  lovingly,  — oh, 
it  was  very  hard  to  bear  this  blank  of  absence, 
silence,  apparent  indifference,  after  those  mo- 
ments of  glowing  love!  She  was  not  afraid 
that  Adam  would  tease  her  with  love-making 
and  flattering  speeches  like  her  other  admirers: 
he  had  always  been  so  reserved  to  her;  she 
could  enjoy  without  any  fear  the  sense  that  this 
strong,  brave  man  loved  her,  and  was  near  her. 
It  never  entered  into  her  mind  that  Adam  was 
pitiable  too,  —  that  Adam,  too,  must  suffer 
one  day. 

Hetty,  we  know,  was  not  the  first  woman 
that  had  behaved  more  gently  to  the  man  who 
loved  her  in  vain,  because  she  had  herself  begun 
to  love  another.  It  was  a  very  old  story;  but 
Adam  knew  nothing  about  it,  so  he  drank  in 
the  sweet  delusion. 

"That'll  do,"  said  Hetty,  after  a  httle  while. 
"Aunt  wants  me  to  leave  some  on  the  trees. 
I'll  take  'em  in  now." 

"It's  very  well  I  came  to  carry  the  basket," 
said  Adam,'  "  for  it  'ud  ha'  been  too  heavy  for 
your   little   arms." 

"No;  I  could  ha'  carried  it  with  both  hands." 

"Oh,  I  dare  say,"  said  Adam,  smiling,  "and 
been  as  long  getting  into  the  house  as  a  little 
ant  carrying  a  caterpillar.  Have  you  ever  seen 
those  tiny  fellows  carrying  things  four  times  as 
big  as  themselves.^" 

"No,"  said  Hetty,  indiflFerently,  not  caring 
to  know  the  difficulties  of  ant- life. 

"Oh,  I  used  to  watch  'em  often  when  I  was 
a  lad.  But  now,  you  see,  I  can  carry  the  basket 
with  one  arm,  as  if  it  was  an  empty  nutshell, 


ADAM  VISITS   THE    HALL    FARM    327 

and  give  you  th'  other  arm  to  lean  on.  Won't 
you  ?  Such  big  arms  as  mine  were  made  for 
little  arms  like  yours  to  lean  on." 

Hetty  smiled  faintly,  and  put  her  arm  within 
his.  Adam  looked  down  at  her,  but  her  eyes 
were  turned  dreamily  towards  another  corner 
of  the  garden. 

"Have  you  ever  been  to  Eagledale.^"  she 
said,   as   they   walked   slowly   along. 

"Yes,"  said  Adam,  pleased  to  have  her  ask 
a  question  about  himself;  "ten  years  ago,  when 
I  was  a  lad,  I  went  with  father  to  see  about 
some  work  there.  It's  a  wonderful  sight,  — 
rocks  and  caves  such  as  you  never  saw  in  your 
life.  I  never  had  a  right  notion  o'  rocks  till  I 
went  there." 

"How  long  did  it  take  to  get  there .^" 

"  Why,  it  took  us  the  best  part  o'  two  days' 
walking.  But  it's  nothing  of  a  day's  journey 
for  anybody  as  has  got  a  first-rate  nag.  The 
Captain  'ud  get  there  in  nine  or  ten  hours,  I'll 
be  bound,  he's  such  a  rider.  And  I  should  n't 
wonder  if  he's  back  again  to-morrow;  he's 
too  active  to  rest  long  in  that  lonely  place,  all 
by  himself,  for  there's  nothing  but  a  bit  of  a  inn 
i'  that  part  where  he's  gone  to  fish.  I  wish 
he'd  got  th'  estate  in  his  hands;  that  'ud  be  the 
right  thing  for  him,  for  it  'ud  give  him  plenty 
to  do,  and  he'd  do  't  well  too,  for  all  he's  so 
young;  he's  got  better  notions  o'  things  than 
many  a  man  twice  his  age.  He  spoke  very 
handsome  to  me  th'  other  day  about  lending 
me  money  to  set  up  i'  business;  and  if  things 
came  round  that  way,  I'd  rather  be  beholding 
to  him  nor  to  any  man  i'  the  world." 


328  ADAM   BEDE 

Poor  Adam  was  led  on  to  speak  about  Arthur 
because  be  thought  Hetty  would  be  pleased  to 
know  that  the  young  squire  was  so  ready  to 
befriend  him;  the  fact  entered  into  his  future 
prospects,  which  he  would  like  to  seem  promis- 
ing in  her  eyes.  And  it  was  true  that  Hetty 
listened  with  an  interest  which  brought  a  new 
light  into  her  eyes  and  a  half  smile  upon  her 
lips. 

"How  pretty  the  roses  are  now!"  Adam  con- 
tinued, pausing  to  look  at  them.  "See!  I  stole 
the  prettiest,  but  I  didna  mean  to  keep  it  myself. 
I  think  these  as  are  all  pink,  and  have  got  a 
finer  sort  o'  green  leaves,  are  prettier  than  the 
striped  uns,  don't  you.^" 

He  set  down  the  basket,  and  took  the  rose 
from  his  button-hole. 

"It  smells  very  sweet,"  he  said;  "those 
striped  uns  have  no  smell.  Stick  it  in  your 
frock,  and  then  you  can  put  it  in  water  after. 
It  'ud  be  a  pity  to  let  it  fade." 

Hetty  took  the  rose,  smiling  as  she  did  so  at 
the  pleasant  thought  that  Arthur  could  so  soon 
get  back  if  he  liked.  There  was  a  flash  of  hope 
and  happiness  in  her  mind,  and  with  a  sudden 
impulse  of  gayety  she  did  what  she  had  very 
often  done  before,  —  stuck  the  rose  in  her  hair 
a  little  above  the  left  ear.  The  tender  admira- 
tion in  Adam's  face  was  slightly  shadowed  by 
reluctant  disapproval.  Hetty's  love  of  finery 
was  just  the  thing  that  would  most  provoke  his 
mother,  and  he  himself  disliked  it  as  much  as  it 
was  possible  for  him  to  dislike  anything  that 
belonged  to  her. 

"Ah,"  he  said,  "that's  like  the  ladies  in  the 


ADAM   VISITS    THE   HALL   FARM    329 

pictures  at  the  Chase;  they've  mostly  got 
jflowers  or  feathers  or  gold  things  i'  their  hair, 
but  somehow  I  don't  like  to  see  'em;  they  allays 
put  me  i'  mind  o'  the  painted  women  outside  the 
shows  at  Treddles'on  fair.  What  can  a  woman 
have  to  set  her  ofi'  better  than  her  own  hair, 
when  it  curls  so,  like  yours  ?  If  a  woman's 
young  and  pretty,  I  think  you  can  see  her  good 
looks  all  the  better  for  her  being  plain  dressed. 
Why,  Dinah  Morris  looks  very  nice,  for  all  she 
wears  such  a  plain  cap  and  gown.  It  seems  to 
me  as  a  woman's  face  doesna  want  flowers: 
it's  almost  like  a  flower  itself.  I'm  sure  yours 
is. 

"Oh,  very  well,"  said  Hetty,  with  a  little 
playful  pout,  taking  the  rose  out  of  her  hair. 
"I'll  put  one  o'  Dinah's  caps  on  when  we  go 
in,  and  you'll  see  if  I  look  better  in  it.  She 
left  one  behind,  so  I  can  take  the  pattern." 

"Nay,  nay,  I  don't  want  you  to  wear  a 
Methodist  cap  like  Dinah's.  I  dare  say  it  's  a 
very  ugly  cap,  and  I  used  to  think,  when  I  saw 
her  here,  as  it  was  nonsense  for  her  to  dress 
different  t'  other  people;  but  I  never  rightly 
noticed  her  till  she  came  to  see  mother  last 
week,  and  then  I  thought  the  cap  seemed  to  fit 
her  face  somehow  as  th'  acorn-cup  fits  th' 
acorn,  and  I  should  n't  like  to  see  her  so  well 
without  it.  But  you've  got  another  sort  o' 
face;  I'd  have  you  just  as  you  are  now,  without 
anything  t'  interfere  with  your  own  looks.  It's 
like  when  a  man's  singing  a  good  tune,  you 
don't  want  t'  hear  bells  tinkling  and  interfering 
wi'  the  sound." 

He  took  her  arm  and  put  it  within  his  again. 


330  ADAM   BEDE 

looking  down  on  her  fondly.  He  was  afraid 
she  should  think  he  had  lectured  her;  imagin- 
ing, as  we  are  apt  to  do,  that  she  had  perceived 
all  the  thoughts  he  had  only  half  expressed. 
And  the  thing  he  dreaded  most  was  lest  any 
cloud  should  come  over  this  evening's  happi- 
ness. For  the  world  he  would  not  have  spoken 
of  his  love  to  Hetty  yet,  till  this  commencing 
kindness  towards  him  should  have  grown  into 
unmistakable  love.  In  his  imagination  he  saw 
long  years  of  his  future  life  stretching  before 
him,  blest  with  the  right  to  call  Hetty  his  own; 
he  could  be  content  with  very  little  at  present. 
So  he  took  up  the  basket  of  currants  once  more, 
and  they  went  on  towards  the  house. 

The  scene  had  quite  changed  in  the  half- hour 
that  Adam  had  l^een  in  the  garden.  The  yard 
was  full  of  life  now:  Martv  was  lettinfi:  the 
screammg  geese  through  the  gate,  and  wickedly 
provoking  the  gander  by  hissing  at  him;  the 
granary-door  was  groaning  on  its  hinges  as 
Alick  shut  it,  after  dealing  out  the  corn;  the 
horses  were  being  led  out  to  watering,  amidst 
much  barking  of  all  the  three  dogs,  and  many 
"whups"  from  Tim  the  ploughman,  as  if  the 
heavy  animals  who  held  down  their  meek,  in- 
telligent heads,  and  lifted  their  shaggy  feet  so 
deliberately,  were  likely  to  rush  wildly  in  every 
direction  but  the  right.  Everybody  was  come 
back  from  the  meadow;  and  when  Hetty  and 
Adam  entered  the  house- place,  Mr.  Poyser  was 
seated  in  the  three-cornered  chair,  and  the 
grandfather  in  the  large  arm-chair  opposite, 
looking  on  with  pleasant  expectation  while  the 
supper  was  being  laid  on  the  oak  table.     Mrs. 


ADAM  VISITS   THE    HALL  FARM    331 

Poyser  had  laid  the  cloth  herself,  —  a  cloth 
made  of  homespun  linen,  with  a  shining  check- 
ered pattern  on  it,  and  of  an  agreeable  whitey- 
brown  hue,  such  as  all  sensible  housewives  like 
to  see,  —  none  of  your  bleached  "shop-rag" 
that  would  wear  into  holes  in  no  time,  but  good 
homespun  that  would  last  for  two  generations. 
The  cold  veal,  the  fresh  lettuces,  and  the  stuffed 
chine  might  well  look  tempting  to  hungry  men 
who  had  dined  at  half- past  twelve  o'clock.  On 
the  large  deal  table  against  the  wall  there  were 
bright  pewter  plates  and  spoons  and  cans, 
ready  for  Alick  and  his  companions:  for  the 
master  and  servants  ate  their  supper  not  far  off 
each  other;  which  was  all  the  pleasanter,  be- 
cause if  a  remark  about  to-morrow  morning's 
work  occurred  to  Mr.  Poyser,  Alick  was  at  hand 
to  hear  it. 

"Well,  Adam,  I'm  glad  to  see  ye,"  said  Mr. 
Poyser.  "What!  ye've  been  helping  Hetty  to 
gether  the  curran's,  eh  ?  Come,  sit  ye  down, 
sit  ye  down.  Why,  it's  pretty  near  a  three- 
week  since  y'  had  your  supper  with  us ;  and  the 
missis  has  got  one  of  her  rare  stuffed  chines. 
I'm  glad  ye 're  come." 

"Hetty,"  said  Mrs.  Poyser,  as  she  looked 
into  the  basket  of  currents  to  see  if  the  fruit  was 
fine,  "run  upstairs,  and  send  Molly  down. 
She's  putting  Totty  to  bed,  and  I  want  her  to 
draw  th'  ale,  for  Nancy's  busy  yet  i'  the  dairy. 
You  can  see  to  the  child.  But  whativer  did 
you  let  her  run  away  from  you  along  wi'  Tommy 
for,  and  stuff  herself  wi'  fruit  as  she  can't  eat 
a  bit  o'  good  victual.?" 

This  was  said  in  a  lower  tone  than   usual, 


332  ADAM   BEDE 

while  her  husband  was  talking  to  Adam;  for 
Mrs.  Poyser  was  strict  in  adherence  to  her  own 
rules  of  propriety,  and  she  considered  that  a 
young  gin  was  not  to  be  treated  sharply  in  the 
presence  of  a  respectable  man  who  was  courting 
her.  That  would  not  be  fair  play:  every 
woman  was  young  in  her  turn,  and  had  her 
chances  of  matrimony,  which  it  was  a  point 
of  honour  for  other  women  not  to  spoil,  —  just 
as  one  market-woman  who  has  sold  her  own 
eggs  must  not  try  to  balk  another  of  a  customer. 

Hetty  made  haste  to  run  away  upstairs,  not 
easily  finding  an  answer  to  her  aunt's  question; 
and  Mrs.  Poyser  went  out  to  see  after  Marty 
and  Tommy,  and  bring  them  in  to  supper. 

Soon  they  were  all  seated,  —  the  two  rosy 
lads,  one  on  each  side,  by  the  pale  mother,  a 
place  being  left  for  Hetty  between  Adam  and 
her  uncle.  Alick  too  was  come  in,  and  was 
seated  in  his  far  corner,  eating  cold  broad  beans 
out  of  a  large  dish  with  his  pocket-knife,  and 
finding  a  flavour  in  them  which  he  would  not 
have  exchanged  for  the  finest  pineapple. 

"  What  a  time  that  gell  is  drawing  th'  ale,  to 
be  sure!"  said  Mrs.  Poyser,  when  she  was  dis- 
pensing her  slices  of  stuffed  chine.  "I  think 
she  sets  the  jug  under  and  forgets  to  turn  the 
tap,  as  there's  nothing  you  can't  believe  o' 
them  wenches:  they'll  sit  the  empty  kettle  o' 
the  fire,  and  then  come  an  hour  after  to  see  if 
the  water  boils." 

"She's  drawin'  for  the  men  too,"  said  Mr. 
Poyser.  "Thee  shouldst  ha'  told  her  to  bring 
our  jug  up  first." 

"Told   her?"     said   IVIrs.   Poyser;    "yes,   I 


ADAM  VISITS  THE    HALL    FARM    333 

might  spend  all  the  wind  i'  my  body,  an'  take 
the  bellows  too,  if  I  was  to  tell  them  gells  every- 
thing as  their  own  sharpness  wonna  tell  'em. 
Mr.  Bede,  will  you  take  some  vinegar  with  your 
lettuce?  Ay,  you're  i'  the  right  not.  It  spoils 
the  flavour  o'  the  chine,  to  my  thinking.  It's 
poor  eating  where  the  flavour  o'  the  meat  lies 
i'  the  cruets.  There's  folks  as  make  bad  butter, 
and  trusten  to  the  salt  t'  hide  it." 

Mrs.  Poyser's  attention  w^as  here  diverted  by 
the  appearance  of  Molly,  carrying  a  large  jug, 
two  small  mugs,  and  four  drinking- cans,  all 
full  of  ale  or  small  beer,  —  an  interesting  ex- 
ample of  the  prehensile  power  possessed  by  the 
human  hand.  Poor  Molly's  mouth  was  rather 
wider  open  than  usual,  as  she  walked  along 
with  her  eyes  fixed  on  the  double  cluster  of 
vessels  in  her  hands,  quite  innocent  of  the 
expression  in  her  mistress's  eye. 

"  Molly,  I  niver  knew  your  equils,  —  to  think 
o'  your  poor  mother  as  is  a  widow,  an'  I  took 
you  wi'  as  good  as  no  character,  an'  the  times 
an'  times  I've  told  you  —  " 

Molly  had  not  seen  the  lightning,  and  the 
thunder  shook  her  nerves  the  more  for  the  want 
of  that  preparation.  With  a  vague,  alarmed 
sense  that  she  must  somehow  comport  herself 
differently,  she  hastened  her  step  a  little  towards 
the  far  deal  table,  where  she  might  set  down 
her  cans,  —  caught  her  foot  in  her  apron,  which 
had  become  untied,  and  fell  with  a  crash  and 
a  splash  into  a  pool  of  beer ;  whereupon  a  titter- 
ing explosion  from  Marty  and  Tommy,  and  a 
serious  "Ello!"  from  Mr.  Poyser,  who  saw 
his  draught  of  ale  unpleasantly  deferred. 


334  ADAM   BEDE 

"There  you  go!"  resumed  Mrs.  Poyser,  in 
a  cutting  tone,  as  she  rose  and  went  towards 
the  cupboard,  while  Molly  began  dolefully  to 
pick  up  the  fragments  of  pottery.  "It's  what 
I  told  you  'ud  come,  over  and  over  again;  and 
there's  your  month's  wage  gone,  and  more,  to 
pay  for  that  jug  as  I've  had  i'  the  house  this 
ten  year,  and  nothing  ever  happened  to  't  before; 
but  the  crockery  you've  broke  sin'  here  in  th' 
house  you've  been  'ud  make  a  parson  swear, 
—  God  forgi'  me  for  saying  so;  an'  if  it  had 
been  boiling  wort  out  o'  the  copper,  it  'ud  ha' 
been  the  same,  and  you'd  ha'  been  scalded, 
and  very  like  lamed  for  life,  as  there's  no  know- 
ing but  what  you  will  be  some  day  if  you  go  on; 
for  anybody  'ud  think  you'd  got  the  St,  Vitus's 
Dance,  to  see  the  things  you've  throwed  down. 
It's  a  pity  but  what  the  bits  was  stacked  up  for 
you  to  see,  though  it's  neither  seeing  nor  hear- 
ing as  'uU  make  much  odds  to  you,  —  anybody 
'ud  think  you  war  case-hardened." 

Poor  Molly's  tears  were  dropping  fast  by  this 
time,  and  in  her  desperation  at  the  lively  move- 
ment of  the  beer-stream  towards  Alick's  legs, 
she  was  converting  her  apron  into  a  mop,  while 
Mrs.  Poyser,  opening  the  cupboard,  turned  a 
blighting  eye  upon  her. 

"Ah,"  she  went  on,  "you'll  do  no  good  wi' 
crying  an'  making  more  wet  to  wipe  up.  It's 
all  your  own  wilfulness,  as  I  tell  you,  for  there's 
nobody  no  call  to  break  anything  if  they'll  only 

fo  the  right  way  to  work.  But  wooden  folks 
ad  need  ha'  wooden  things  t'  handle.  And 
here  must  I  take  the  brown- and- white  jug,  as 
it's  niver  been  used  three  times  this  year,  and 


ADAM  VISITS  THE    HALL   FARM    335 

go  down  i'  the  cellar  myself,  and  belike  catch 
my  death,  and  be  laid  up  wi'  inflammation  —  '* 

Mrs.  Poyser  had  turned  round  from  the  cup- 
board with  the  brown- and- white  jug  in  her 
hand,  when  she  caught  sight  of  something  at 
the  other  end  of  the  kitchen;  perhaps  it  was 
because  she  was  already  trembling  and  nervous 
that  the  apparition  had  so  strong  an  effect  on 
her;  perhaps  jug- breaking,  like  other  crimes, 
has  a  contagious  influence.  However  it  was, 
she  stared  and  started  like  a  ghost- seer,  and  the 
precious  brown-and-white  jug  fell  to  the  ground, 
parting  forever  with  its  spout  and  handle. 

"Did  ever  anybody  see  the  like.?"  she  said, 
with  a  suddenly  lowered  tone,  after  a  moment's 
bewildered  glance  round  the  room.  "The  jugs 
are  bewitched,  I  think.  It's  them  nasty  glazed 
handles,  —  they  slip  o'er  the  finger  like  a  snail." 

"Why,  thee'st  let  thy  own  whip  fly  i'  thy 
face,"  said  her  husband,  who  had  now  joined 
in  the  laugh  of  the  young  ones. 

"It's  all  very  fine  to  look  on  and  grin,"  re- 
joined Mrs.  Poyser;  "but  there's  times  when 
the  crockery  seems  alive,  an'  flies  out  o'  your 
hand  like  a  bird.  It's  like  the  glass,  sometimes, 
'uU  crack  as  it  stands.  What  is  to  be  broke 
will  be  broke,  for  I  never  dropped  a  thing  i' 
my  life  for  want  o'  holding  it,  else  I  should 
never  ha'  kept  the  crockery  all  these  'ears  as  I 
bought  at  my  own  wedding.  And,  Hetty,  are 
you  mud.?  Whativer  do  you  mean  by  coming 
down  i'  that  way,  and  making  one  think  as 
there's  a  ghost  a- walking  i'  th'  house.?" 

A  new  outbreak  of  laughter,  while  Mrs. 
Poyser  was  speaking,  was  caused,  less  by  her 


336  ADAM  BEDE 

sudden  conversion  to  a  fatalistic  view  of  jug- 
breaking  than  by  that  strange  appearance  of 
Hetty,  which  had  startled  her  aunt.  The  little 
minx  had  found  a  black  gown  of  her  aunt's, 
and  pinned  it  close  round  her  neck  to  look  like 
Dinah's,  had  made  her  hair  as  flat  as  she  could, 
and  had  tied  on  one  of  Dinah's  high-crowned 
borderless  net  caps.  The  thought  of  Dinah's 
pale  grave  face  and  mild  gray  eyes,  which  the 
sight  of  the  gown  and  cap  brought  with  it, 
made  it  a  laughable  surprise  enough  to  see  them 
replaced  by  Hetty's  round  rosy  cheeks  and  co- 
quettish dark  eyes.  The  boys  got  off  their  chairs 
and  jumped  round  her,  clapping  their  hands, 
and  even  Alick  gave  a  low  ventral  laugh  as  he 
looked  up  from  his  beans.  Under  cover  of  the 
noise,  ]\Irs.  Poyser  went  into  the  back-kitchen 
to  send  Nancy  into  the  cellar  with  the  great 
pewter  measure,  which  had  some  chance  of 
being  free  from  bewitchment. 

"Why,  Hetty,  lass,  are  ye  turned  Metho- 
dist.^" said  Mr.  Poyser,  with  that  comfort- 
able, slow  enjoyment  of  a  laugh  which  one 
only  sees  in  stout  people.  "You  must  pull 
your  face  a  deal  longer  before  you  '11  do  for  one; 
mustna  she,  Adam  ?  How  come  you  to  put 
them    things    on,    eh  ?" 

"Adam  said  he  liked  Dinah's  cap  and  gown 
better  nor  my  clothes,"  said  Hetty,  sitting  down 
demurely.  "He  says  folks  look  better  in  ugly 
clothes." 

"Nay,  nay,"  said  Adam,  looking  at  her  ad- 
miringly; "I  only  said  they  seemed  to  suit 
Dinah.  But  if  I'd  said  you'd  look  pretty  in  'em, 
I  should  ha'  said  nothing  but  what  was  true." 


ADAM  VISITS  THE    HALL   FARM    337 

"Why,  thee  thought 'st  Hetty  war  a  ghost, 
didstna?"  said  Mr.  Poyser  to  his  wife,  who 
now  came  back  and  took  her  seat  again.  "  Thee 
look'dst  as  scared  as  scared." 

"It  little  sinnifies  how  I  looked,"  said  Mrs. 
Poyser;  "looks  'ull  mend  no  jogs,  nor  laughing 
neither,  as  I  see.  Mr.  Bede,  I'm  sorry  you've 
to  wait  so  long  for  your  ale,  but  it's  coming  in 
a  minute.  Make  yourself  at  home  wi'  th'  cold 
potatoes;  I  know  you  like  'em.  Tommy,  I'll 
send  you  to  bed  this  minute  if  you  don't  give 
over  laughing.  What  is  there  to  laugh  at,  I 
should  like  to  know.^  I'd  sooner  cry  nor  laugh 
at  the  sight  o'  that  poor  thing's  cap;  and  there's 
them  as  'ud  be  better  if  they  could  make  their- 
selves  like  her  i'  more  ways  nor  putting  on  her 
cap.  It  little  becomes  anybody  i'  this  house 
to  make  fun  o'  my  sister's  child,  an'  her  just 
gone  away  from  us,  as  it  went  to  my  heart  to 
part  wi'  her:  an'  I  know  one  thing,  as  if  trouble 
was  to  come,  an'  I  was  to  be  laid  up  i'  my  bed, 
an'  the  children  was  to  die,  —  as  there's  no 
knowing  but  what  they  will,  —  an'  the  murrain 
was  to  come  among  the  cattle  again,  an'  every- 
thing went  to  rack  an'  ruin,  —  I  say  we  might 
be  glad  to  get  sight  o'  Dinah's  cap  again,  wi' 
her  own  face  under  it,  border  or  no  border. 
For  she's  one  o'  them  things  as  looks  the  bright- 
est on  a  rainy  day,  and  loves  you  the  best  when 
you're  most  i'  need  on  't." 

Mrs.  Poyser,  you  perceive,  was  aware  that 
nothing  would  be  so  likely  to  expel  the  comic 
as  the  terrible.  Tommy,  who  was  of  a  sus- 
ceptible disposition  and  very  fond  of  his  mother, 
and  who  had,  besides,  eaten  so  many  cherries 

VOL.  1—22 


338  ADAM   BEDE 

as  to  have  his  feehngs  less  under  command  than 
usual,  was  so  affected  by  the  dreadful  picture 
she  had  made  of  the  possible  future,  that  he 
began  to  cry;  and  the  good-natured  father, 
indulgent  to  all  weaknesses  but  those  of  negli- 
gent farmers,  said  to  Hetty,  — 

"You'd  better  take  the  things  off  again,  my 
lass;    it  hurts  your  aunt  to  see  'em." 

Hetty  went  upstairs  again,  and  the  arrival 
of  the  ale  made  an  agreeable  diversion;  for 
Adam  had  to  give  his  opinion  of  the  new  tap, 
which  could  not  be  otherwise  than  compliment 
tary  to  Mrs.  Poyser;  and  then  followed  a  dis- 
cussion on  the  secrets  of  good  brewing,  the  folly 
of  stinginess  in  "hopping,"  and  the  doubtful 
economy  of  a  farmer's  making  his  own  malt. 
Mrs.  Poyser  had  so  many  opportunities  of  ex- 
pressing herself  with  weight  on  these  subjects, 
that  by  the  time  supper  was  ended,  the  ale-jug 
refilled,  and  Mr.  Poyser's  pipe  alight,  she  was 
once  more  in  high  good- humour,  and  ready, 
at  Adam's  request,  to  fetch  the  broken  spinning- 
wheel  for  his  inspection. 

"Ah,"  said  Adam,  looking  at  it  carefully, 
"here's  a  nice  bit  o'  turning  wanted.  It's  a 
pretty  wheel.  I  must  have  it  up  at  the  turning- 
shop  in  the  village,  and  do  it  there,  for  I  've  no 
conven'ence  for  turning  at  home.  If  you'll 
send  it  to  Mr.  Purge's  shop  i'  the  morning,  I'll 
get  it  done  for  you  by  Wednesday.  I've  been 
turning  it  over  in  my  mind,"  he  continued, 
looking  at  Mr.  Poyser,  "to  make  a  bit  more 
conven'ence  at  home  for  nice  jobs  o'  cabinet- 
making.  I've  always  done  a  deal  at  such  little 
things  in  odd  hours,  and  they're  profitable,  for 


ADAM  VISITS  THE    HALL   FARM    3S9 

there's  more  workmanship  nor  material  in  'em. 
I  look  for  me  and  Seth  to  get  a  little  business 
for  ourselves  i'  that  way;  for  I  know  a  man  at 
Rosseter  as  'uU  take  as  many  things  as  we  should 
make,  besides  what  we  could  get  orders  for 
round  about." 

Mr.  Poyser  entered  with  interest  into  a  pro- 
ject which  seemed  a  step  towards  Adam's  be- 
coming a  "master-man;"  and  Mrs.  Poyser 
gave  her  approbation  to  the  scheme  of  the  mov- 
able kitchen  cupboard,  which  was  to  be  capable 
of  containing  grocery,  pickles,  crockery,  and 
house-linen,  in  the  utmost  compactness,  with- 
out confusion.  Hetty,  once  more  in  her  own 
dress,  with  her  neckerchief  pushed  a  little 
backwards  on  this  warm  evening,  was  seated 
picking  currants  near  the  window,  where  Adam 
could  see  her  quite  well.  And  so  the  time 
passed  pleasantly  till  Adam  got  up  to  go.  He 
was  pressed  to  come  again  soon,  but  not  to  stay 
longer,  for  at  this  busy  time  sensible  people 
would  not  run  the  risk  of  being  sleepy  at  five 
o'clock  in  the  morning. 

"I  shall  take  a  step  farther,"  said  Adam, 
*'  and  go  on  to  see  Mester  Massey,  for  he  was  n't 
at  church  yesterday,  and  I  've  not  seen  him  for 
a  week  past.  I  've  never  hardly  known  him  to 
miss  church  before." 

"Ay,"  said  Mr.  Poyser,  "we've  heard  noth- 
ing about  him,  for  it's  the  boys'  hollodays  now, 
so  we  can  give  you  no  account." 

"But  you'll  niver  think  o'  going  there  at  this 
hour  o'  the  night .'^"  said  Mrs.  Poyser,  folding 
up  her  knitting. 

"Oh,    Mester    Massey    sits    up    late,"    said 


340  ADAM  BEDE 

Adam.  "An'  the  night-school's  not  over  yet. 
Some  o'  the  men  don't  come  till  late,  —  they've 
got  so  far  to  walk.  And  Bartle  himself  's  never 
in  bed  till  it's  gone  eleven." 

"I  wouldna  have  him  to  live  wi'  me,  then," 
said  Mrs.  Poyser,  "a-dropping  candle-grease 
about,  as  you're  like  to  tumble  down  o'  the 
floor  the  first  thing  i'  the  morning." 

"Ay,  eleven  o'clock's  late,  —  it's  late,"  said 
old  Martin.  "I  ne'er  sot  up  so  i'  my  life,  not  to 
say  as  it  warna  a  marr'in',  or  a  christenin',  or  a 
wake,  or  th'  harvest  supper.  Eleven  o'clock's 
late." 

"Why,  I  sit  up  till  after  twelve  often,"  said 
Adam,  laughing;  "but  it  is  n't  t'  eat  and  drink 
extry,  it's  to  work  extry.  Good-night,  Mrs. 
Poyser;    good- night,   Hetty." 

Hetty  could  only  smile  and  not  shake  hands, 
for  hers  were  dyed  and  damp  with  currant- 
juice;  but  all  the  rest  gave  a  hearty  shake  to  the 
large  palm  that  was  held  out  to  them,  and  said, 
"Come  again,  come  again!" 

"Ay,  think  o'  that  now,"  said  Mr.  Poyser, 
when  Adam  was  out  on  the  causeway.  "Sit- 
ting up  till  past  twelve  to  do  extry  work!  Ye '11 
not  find  many  men  o'  six-an'-twenty  as  'uU  do 
to  put  i'  the  shafts  wi'  him.  If  you  can  catch 
Adam  for  a  husband,  Hetty,  you'll  ride  i'  your 
own  spring-cart  some  day,  I'll  be  your  warrant." 

Hetty  was  moving  across  the  kitchen  with 
the  currants,  so  her  uncle  did  not  see  the  little 
toss  of  the  head  with  which  she  answered  him. 
To  ride  in  a  spring- cart  seemed  a  very  miser- 
able lot  indeed  to  her  now. 


CHAPTER    V 

NIGHT-SCHOOL    AND     SCHOOLMASTER 


BARTLE  MASSEY'S  was  one  of  a  few 
scattered  houses  on  the  edge  of  a  com- 
mon, which  was  divided  by  the  road  to 
Treddleston.  Adam  reached  it  in  a  quarter 
of  an  hour  after  leaving  the  Hall  Farm;  and 
when  he  had  his  hand  on  the  door- latch,  he 
could  see,  through  the  curtainless  window,  that 
there  were  eight  or  nine  heads  bending  over  the 
desks,  lighted  by  thin  dips. 

When  he  entered,  a  reading  lesson  was  going 
forward;  and  Bartle  Massey  merely  nodded, 
leaving  him  to  take  his  place  where  he  pleased. 
He  had  not  come  for  the  sake  of  a  lesson  to- 
night, and  his  mind  was  too  full  of  personal 
matters,  too  full  of  the  last  two  hours  he  had 
passed  in  Hetty's  presence,  for  him  to  amuse 
himself  with  a  book  till  school  was  over;  so  he 
sat  down  in  a  corner,  and  looked  on  with  an 
absent  mind.  It  was  a  sort  of  scene  which 
Adam  had  beheld  almost  weekly  for  years;  he 
knew  by  heart  every  arabesque  flourish  in  the 
framed  specimen  of  Bartle  Massey's  handwrit- 
ing which  hung  over  the  schoolmaster's  head, 
by  way  of  keeping  a  lofty  ideal  before  the  minds 
of  his  pupils ;  he  knew  the  backs  of  all  the  books 
on  the  shelf  running  along  the  whitewashed 
wall  above  the  pegs  for  the  slates;  he  knew 
exactly  how  many  grains  were  gone  out  of  the 


342  ADAM   BEDE 

ear  of  Indian-corn  that  hung  from  one  of  the 
rafters;  he  had  long  ago  exhausted  the  re- 
sources of  his  imagination  in  trying  to  think 
how  the  bunch  of  leathery  seaweed  had  looked 
and  grown  in  its  native  element;  and  from  the 
place  where  he  sat,  he  could  make  nothing  of 
the  old  map  of  England  that  hung  against  the 
opposite  wall,  for  age  had  turned  it  of  a  fine 
yellow  brown,  something  like  that  of  a  well- 
seasoned  meerschaum.  The  drama  that  was 
going  on  was  almost  as  familiar  as  the  scene; 
nevertheless  habit  had  not  made  him  indiffer- 
ent to  it,  and  even  in  his  present  self-absorbed 
mood,  Adam  felt  a  momentary  stirring  of  the 
old  fellow-feeling,  as  he  looked  at  the  rough 
men  painfully  holding  pen  or  pencil  with  their 
cramped  hands,  or  humbly  labouring  through 
their  reading  lesson. 

The  reading  class  now  seated  on  the  form  in 
front  of  the  schoolmaster's  desk  consisted  of  the 
three  most  backward  pupils.  Adam  would 
have  known  it  only  by  seeing  Bartle  Massey's 
face  as  he  looked  over  his  spectacles,  which  he 
had  shifted  to  the  ridge  of  his  nose,  not  re- 
quiring them  for  present  purposes.  The  face 
wore  its  mildest  expression:  the  grizzled  bushy 
eyebrows  had  taken  their  more  acute  angle  of 
compassionate  kindness;  and  the  mouth,  habit- 
ually compressed  with  a  pout  of  the  lower  lip, 
was  relaxed  so  as  to  be  ready  to  speak  a  helpfid 
word  or  syllable  in  a  moment.  This  gentle 
expression  was  the  more  interesting  because 
the  schoolmaster's  nose,  an  irregular  aquiline 
twisted  a  little  on  one  side,  had  rather  a  formid- 
able character;    and  his  brow,  moreover,  had 


THE   NIGHT-SCHOOL  343 

that  peculiar  tension  which  always  impresses 
one  as  a  sign  of  a  keen,  impatient  temperament, 
—  the  blue  veins  stood  out  like  cords  under  the 
transparent  yellow  skin;  and  this  intimidating 
brow  was  softened  by  no  tendency  to  baldness, 
for  the  gray  bristly  hair,  cut  down  to  about  an 
inch  in  length,  stood  round  it  in  as  close  ranks 
as  ever. 

"Nay,  Bill,  nay,"  Bartle  was  saying  in  a 
kind  tone,  as  he  nodded  to  Adam,  "begin  that 
again,  and  then,  perhaps,  it'll  come  to  you  what 
dry  spells.  It's  the  same  lesson  you  read  last 
week,  you  know." 

"Bill"  was  a  sturdy  fellow,  aged  four-and- 
twenty,  an  excellent  stone- sawyer,  who  could 
get  as  good  wages  as  any  man  in  the  trade  of  his 
years;  but  he  found  a  reading  lesson  in  words 
of  one  syllable  a  harder  matter  to  deal  with 
than  the  hardest  stone  he  had  ever  had  to  saw. 
The  letters,  he  complained,  were  so  "uncom- 
mon alike,  there  was  no  tellin'  'em  one  from 
another,"  —  the  sawyer's  business  not  being 
concerned  with  minute  differences  such  as  exist 
between  a  letter  with  its  tail  turned  up  and 
a  letter  with  its  tail  turned  down.  But  Bill 
had  a  firm  determination  that  he  would  learn 
to  read,  founded  chiefly  on  two  reasons:  first, 
that  Tom  Hazelow,  his  cousin,  could  read  any- 
thing "right  off,"  whether  it  was  print  or  writ- 
ing, and  Tom  had  sent  him  a  letter  from  twenty 
miles  off,  saying  how  he  was  prospering  in  the 
world,  and  had  got  an  overlooker's  place;  sec- 
ondly, that  Sam  Phillips,  who  sawed  with  him, 
had  learned  to  read  when  he  was  turned  twenty; 
and  what  could  be  done  by  a  little  fellow  like 


844  ADAM  BEDE 

Sam  Phillips,  Bill  considered,  could  be  done  by 
himself,  seeing  that  he  could  pound  Sam  into 
wet  clay  if  circumstances  required  it.  So  here 
he  was,  pointing  his  big  finger  towards  three 
words  at  once,  and  turning  his  head  on  one  side 
that  he  might  keep  better  hold  with  his  eye  of 
the  one  word  which  was  to  be  discriminated 
out  of  the  group.  The  amount  of  knowledge 
Bartle  Massey  must  possess  was  something  so 
dim  and  vast  that  Bill's  imagination  recoiled 
before  it:  he  would  hardly  have  ventured  to 
deny  that  the  schoolmaster  might  have  some- 
thing to  do  in  bringing  about  the  regular  return 
of  daylight  and  the  changes  in  the  weather. 

The  man  seated  next  to  Bill  was  of  a  very 
different  type :  he  was  a  Methodist  brickmaker, 
who,  after  spending  thirty  years  of  his  life  in 

f)erfect  satisfaction  with  his  ignorance,  had 
ately  "got  religion,"  and  along  with  it  the  de- 
sire to  read  the  Bible.  But  with  him,  too, 
learning  was  a  heavy  business,  and  on  his  way 
out  to-night  he  had  offered  as  usual  a  special 
prayer  for  help,  seeing  that  he  had  undertaken 
this  hard  task  with  a  single  eye  to  the  nourish- 
ment of  his  soul,  —  that  he  might  have  a  greater 
abundance  of  texts  and  hymns  wherewith  to 
banish  evil  memories  and  the  temptations  of 
old  habits,  or,  in  brief  language,  the  devil.  For 
the  brickmaker  had  been  a  notorious  poacher, 
and  was  suspected,  though  there  was  no  good 
evidence  against  him,  of  being  the  man  who  had 
shot  a  neighbouring  gamekeeper  in  the  leg. 
However  that  might  be,  it  is  certain  that  shortly 
after  the  accident  referred  to,  which  was  coinci- 
dent with  the  arrival  of  an  awakening  Methodist 


THE   NIGHT-SCHOOL  345 

preacher  at  Treddleston,  a  great  change  had 
been  observed  in  the  brickmaker;  and  though 
he  was  still  known  in  the  neighbourhood  by 
his  old  sobriquet  of  "Brimstone,"  there  was 
nothing  he  held  in  so  much  horror  as  any 
farther  transactions  with  that  evil-smelling 
element.  He  was  a  broad-chested  fellow,  with 
a  fervid  temperament,  which  helped  him  better 
in  imbibing  religious  ideas  than  in  the  dry  pro- 
cess of  acquiring  the  mere  human  knowledge  of 
the  alphabet.  Indeed,  he  had  been  already  a 
little  shaken  in  his  resolution  by  a  brother 
Methodist,  who  assured  him  that  the  letter 
was  a  mere  obstruction  to  the  Spirit,  and  ex- 
pressed a  fear  that  Brimstone  was  too  eager  for 
the  knowledge  that  puffeth  up. 

The  third  beginner  was  a  much  more  prom- 
ising pupil.  He  was  a  tall  but  thin  and  wiry 
man,  nearly  as  old  as  Brimstone,  with  a  very 
pale  face,  and  hands  stained  a  deep  blue.  He 
was  a  dyer,  who  in  the  course  of  dipping  home- 
spun wool  and  old  women's  petticoats,  had  got 
fired  with  the  ambition  to  learn  a  great  deal 
more  about  the  strange  secrets  of  colour.  He 
had  already  a  high  reputation  in  the  district  for 
his  dyes,  and  he  was  bent  on  discovering  some 
method  by  which  he  could  reduce  the  expense 
of  crimsons  and  scarlets.  The  druggist  at 
Treddleston  had  given  him  a  notion  that  he 
might  save  himself  a  great  deal  of  labour  and 
expense  if  he  could  learn  to  read,  and  so  he  had 
begun  to  give  his  spare  hours  to  the  night- 
school,  resolving  that  his  "little  chap"  should 
lose  no  time  in  coming  to  Mr.  Massey's  day- 
school  as  soon  as  he  was  old  enough. 


546  ADAM   BEDE 

It  was  touching  to  see  these  three  big  men, 
with  the  marks  of  their  hard  labour  about  them, 
anxiously  bending  over  the  worn  books,  and 
painfully  making  out,  "The  grass  is  green," 
"The  sticks  are  dry,"  "The  corn  is  ripe,"  —  a 
very  hard  lesson  to  pass  to  after  columns  of 
single  words  all  alike  except  in  the  first  letter. 
It  was  almost  as  if  three  rough  animals  were 
making  humble  efforts  to  learn  how  they  might 
become  human.  And  it  touched  the  tenderest 
fibre  in  Bartle  Massey's  nature,  for  such  full- 
grown  children  as  these  were  the  only  pupils 
for  whom  he  had  no  severe  epithets  and  no  im- 
patient tones.  He  was  not  gifted  with  an  im- 
perturbable temper,  and  on  music- nights  it  was 
apparent  that  patience  could  never  be  an  easy 
virtue  to  him;  but  this  evening,  as  he  glances 
over  his  spectacles  at  Bill  Downes,  the  sawyer, 
who  is  turning  his  head  on  one  side  with  a  des- 
perate sense  of  blankness  before  the  letters 
dy  r,  ?/,  his  eyes  shed  their  mildest  and  most 
encouraging  light. 

After  the  reading  class,  two  youths,  between 
sixteen  and  nineteen,  came  up  with  imaginary 
bills  of  parcels,  which  they  had  been  writing 
out  on  their  slates,  and  were  now  required  to 
calculate  "offhand,"  ; —  a  test  which  they  stood 
with  such  imperfect  success  that  Bartle  Massey, 
whose  eyes  had  been  glaring  at  them  omin- 
ously through  his  spectacles  for  some  minutes, 
at  length  burst  out  in  a  bitter,  high-pitched 
tone,  pausing  between  every  sentence  to  rap  the 
floor  with  a  knobbed  stick  which  rested  between 
his  legs. 

"Now,  you  see,  you  don't  do  this  thing  a  bit 


THE   NIGHT-SCHOOL  347 

better  than  you  did  a  fortnight  ago;  and  I'll 
tell  you  what  's  the  reason.  You  want  to  learn 
accounts;  that's  well  and  good.  But  you  think 
all  you  need  do  to  learn  accounts  is  to  come  to 
me  and  do  sums  for  an  hour  or  so,  tw^o  or  three 
times  a  week;  and  no  sooner  do  you  get  your 
caps  on  and  turn  out  of  doors  again,  than  you 
sweep  the  whole  thing  clean  out  of  your  mind. 
You  go  whistling  about,  and  take  no  more  care 
what  you're  thinking  of  than  if  your  heads 
were  gutters  for  any  rubbish  to  swill  through 
that  happened  to  be  in  the  way ;  and  if  you  get 
a  good  notion  in  'em,  it's  pretty  soon  washed 
out  again.  You  think  knowledge  is  to  be  got 
cheap, — you'll  come  and  pay  Bartle  Massey 
sixpence  a- week,  and  he'll  make  you  clever  at 
figures  without  your  taking  any  trouble.  But 
knowledge  is  n't  to  be  got  with  paying  sixpence, 
let  me  tell  you:  if  you're  to  know  figures,  you 
must  turn  'em  over  in  your  heads,  and  keep 
your  thoughts  fixed  on  'em.  There's  nothing 
you  can't  turn  into  a  sum,  for  there's  nothing 
but  what's  got  number  in  it,  —  even  a  fool. 
You  may  say  to  yourselves,  '  I  'm  one  fool, 
and  Jack's  another;  if  my  fool's  head  weighed 
four  pound,  and  Jack's  three  pound  three 
ounces  and  three  quarters,  how  many  penny- 
weights heavier  would  my  head  be  than  Jack's  ?^ 
A  man  that  had  got  his  heart  in  learning  figures 
would  make  sums  for  himself,  and  work  'em 
in  his  head:  when  he  sat  at  his  shoemaking, 
he  'd  count  his  stitches  by  fives,  and  then  put  a 
price  on  his  stitches,  say  half  a  farthing,  and 
then  see  how  much  money  he  could  get  in  an 
hour;   and  then  ask  himself  how  much  money 


348  ADAM   BEDE 

he'd  get  in  a  day  at  that  rate;  and  then  how 
much  ten  workmen  would  get  working  three,  or 
twenty,  or  a  hundred  years  at  that  rate,  —  and 
all  the  while  his  needle  would  be  going  just  as 
fast  as  if  he  left  his  head  empty  for  the  devil  to 
dance  in.  But  the  long  and  the  short  of  it  is, 
—  I'll  have  nobody  in  my  night-school  that 
does  n't  strive  to  learn  what  he  comes  to  learn, 
as  hard  as  if  he  was  striving  to  get  out  of  a  dark 
hole  into  broad  daylight.  I'll  send  no  man 
away  because  he's  stupid;  if  Billy  Taft,  the 
idiot,  wanted  to  learn  anything,  I  'd  not  refuse 
to  teach  him.  But  I'll  not  throw  away  good 
knowledge  on  people  who  think  they  can  get  it 
by  the  sixpenn'orth,  and  carry  it  away  with  'em 
as  they  would  an  ounce  of  snuff.  So  never 
come  to  me  again,  if  you  can't  show"  that  you've 
been  working  with  your  own  heads,  instead  of 
thinking  you  can  pay  for  mine  to  work  for  you. 
That's  the  last  word  I've  got  to  say  to  you." 

With  this  final  sentence  Bartle  Massey  gave 
a  sharper  rap  than  ever  with  his  knobbed  stick, 
and  the  discomfited  lads  got  up  to  go  with  a 
sulky  look.  The  other  pupils  had  happily 
only  their  writing-books  to  show,  in  various 
stages  of  progress  from  pot-hooks  to  round  text; 
and  mere  pen- strokes,  how^ever  perverse,  were 
less  exasperating  to  Bartle  than  false  arithmetic. 
He  w  as  a  little  more  severe  than  usual  on  Jacob 
Storey's  Z's,  of  which  poor  Jacob  had  TSTitten 
a  pageful,  all  with  their  tops  turned  the  WTong 
way,  with  a  puzzled  sense  that  they  were  not 
right  "somehow."  But  he  observed  in  apology, 
that  it  was  a  letter  you  never  wanted  hardly, 
and  he  thought  it  had  only  been  put  there  *'to 


THE   NIGHT-SCHOOL  349 

finish  off  th'  alphabet,  Kke,  though  ampus-and 
(  &)  would  ha'  done  as  well,  for  what  he  could 
see. 

At  last  the  pupils  had  all  taken  their  hats  and 
said  their  "Good- nights;"  and  Adam,  knowing 
his  old  master's  habits,  rose  and  said,  "Shall  I 
put  the  candles  out,   Mr.   Massey.^" 

"Yes,  my  boy,  yes,  all  but  this,  which  I'll 
carry  into  the  house;  and  just  lock  the  outer 
door,  now  you're  near  it,"  said  Bartle,  getting 
his  stick  in  the  fitting  angle  to  help  him  in  de- 
scending from  his  stool.  He  was  no  sooner  on 
the  ground  than  it  became  obvious  why  the  stick 
was  necessary,  —  the  left  leg  was  much  shorter 
than  the  right.  But  the  schoolmaster  was  so 
active  with  his  lameness,  that  it  was  hardly 
thought  of  as  a  misfortune;  and  if  you  had 
seen  him  make  his  way  along  the  school- 
room floor,  and  up  the  step  into  his  kitchen, 
you  would  perhaps  have  understood  why  the 
naughty  boys  sometimes  felt  that  his  pace  might 
be  indefinitely  quickened,  and  that  he  and  his 
stick  might  overtake  them  even  in  their  swiftest 
run. 

The  moment  he  appeared  at  the  kitchen  door 
with  the  candle  in  his  hand,  a  faint  whimpering 
began  in  the  chimney-corner,  and  a  brown-and- 
tan-coloured  bitch,  of  that  wise-looking  breed 
with  short  legs  and  long  body,  known  to  an  un- 
mechanical  generation  as  turnspits,  came  creep- 
ing along  the  floor,  wagging  her  tail,  and  hesi- 
tating at  every  other  step,  as  if  her  affections 
were  painfully  divided  between  the  hamper  in 
the  chimney-corner  and  the  master,  whom  she 
could  not  leave  without  a  greeting. 


350  ADAM  BEDE 

"Well,  Vixen,  well  then,  how  are  the  babbies  ?" 
said  the  schoolmaster,  making  haste  towards 
the  chimney-corner,  and  holding  the  candle 
over  the  low  hamper,  where  two  extremely 
blind  puppies  lifted  up  their  heads  towards  the 
light,  from  a  nest  of  flannel  and  wool.  Vixen 
could  not  even  see  her  master  look  at  them 
without  painful  excitement;  she  got  into  the 
hamper  and  got  out  again  the  next  moment, 
and  behaved  with  true  feminine  folly,  though 
looking  all  the  while  as  wise  as  a  dwarf  with  a 
large  old-fashioned  head  and  body  on  the  most 
abbreviated  legs. 

"Why,  you've  got  a  family,  I  see,  Mr. 
Massey,"  said  iVdam,  smiling,  as  he  came  into 
the  kitchen.  "How's  that.?  I  thought  it  was 
against  the  law  here." 

"  Law  ?  What's  the  use  o'  law  when  a  man's 
once  such  a  fool  as  to  let  a  woman  into  his 
house.?"  said  Bartle,  turning  away  from  the 
hamper  with  some  bitterness.  He  always  called 
Vixen  a  woman,  and  seemed  to  have  lost  all 
consciousness  that  he  was  using  a  figure  of 
speech.  "If  I'd  known  Vixen  was  a  woman, 
I'd  never  have  held  the  boys  from  drowning 
her;  but  when  I'd  got  her  into  my  hand,  I  was 
forced  to  take  to  her.  And  now  you  see  what 
she's  brought  me  to,  —  the  sly,  hypocritical 
wench,"  —  Bartle  spoke  these  last  words  in  a 
rasping  tone  of  reproach,  and  looked  at  Vixen, 
who  poked  down  her  head  and  turned  up  her 
eyes  towards  him  with  a  keen  sense  of  oppro- 
brium, —  "  and  contrived  to  be  brought  to  bed 
on  a  Sunday  at  church- time.  I've  wished 
again  and  again  I'd  been  a  bloody-minded  man. 


THE  NIGHT-SCHOOL  351 

that  I  could  have  strangled  the  mother  and  the 
brats  with  one  cord." 

"I'm  glad  it  was  no  worse  a  cause  kept  you 
from  church,"  said  Adam.  "I  was  afraid  you 
must  be  ill  for  the  first  time  i'  your  life;  and  I 
was  particular  sorry  not  to  have  you  at  church 
yesterday." 

"Ah,  my  boy,  I  know  why,  I  know  why," 
said  Bartle,  kindly,  going  up  to  Adam,  and 
raising  his  hand  up  to  the  shoulder  that  was 
almost  on  a  level  with  his  own  head.  "You've 
had  a  rough  bit  o'  road  to  get  over  since  I  saw 
you,  —  a  rough  bit  o'  road.  But  I'm  in  hopes 
there  are  better  times  coming  for  you.  I've 
got  some  news  to  tell  you.  But  I  must  get  my 
supper,  first,  for  I'm  hungry,  I'm  hungry.  Sit 
down,  sit  down." 

Bartle  went  into  his  little  pantry,  and  brought 
out  an  excellent  home- baked  loaf;  for  it  was 
his  one  extravagance  in  these  dear  times  to  eat 
bread  once  a  day  instead  of  oat-cake;  and  he 
justified  it  by  observing  that  what  a  school- 
master wanted  was  brains,  and  oat- cake  ran  too 
much  to  bone  instead  of  brains.  Then  came 
a  piece  of  cheese,  and  a  quart  jug  with  a  crown 
of  foam  upon  it.  He  placed  them  all  on  the 
round  deal  table  which  stood  against  his  large 
arm-chair  in  the  chimney-corner,  with  Vixen's 
hamper  on  one  side  of  it,  and  a  window^- shelf 
with  a  few  books  piled  up  in  it  on  the  other. 
The  table  was  as  clean  as  if  Vixen  had  been  an 
excellent  housewife  in  a  checkered  apron;  so 
was  the  quarry  floor;  and  the  old  carved  oaken 
press,  table,  and  chairs  —  which  in  these  days 
would  be  bought  at  a  high  price  in  aristocratic 


352  ADAM   BEDE 

houses,  though,  in  that  period  of  spider-legs 
and  inlaid  cupids,  Bartle  had  got  them  for  an 
old  song  —  were  as  free  from  dust  as  things 
could  be  at  the  end  of  a  summer's  day. 

"Now,  then,  my  boy,  draw  up,  draw  up. 
We'll  not  talk  about  business  till  w^e've  had 
our  supper.  No  man  can  be  wise  on  an  empty 
stomach.  But,"  said  Bartle,  rising  from  his 
chair  again,  "I  must  give  Vixen  her  supper  too, 
confound  her!  though  she'll  do  nothing  with 
it  but  nourish  those  unnecessary  babbies. 
That's  the  way  with  these  women;  they've 
got  no  head- pieces  to  nourish,  and  so  their  food 
all  runs  either  to  fat  or  to  brats." 

He  brought  out  of  the  pantry  a  dish  of  scraps, 
which  Vixen  at  once  fixed  her  eyes  on,  and 
jumped  out  of  her  hamper  to  lick  up  with  the 
utmost  despatch. 

"I've  had  my  supper,  Mr.  Massey,"  said 
Adam,  "so  I'll  look  on  while  you  eat  yours. 
I've  been  at  the  Hall  Farm,  and  they  always 
have  their  supper  betimes,  you  know:  they 
don't  keep  your   late   hours." 

"I  know  little  about  their  hours,"  said  Bartle, 
dryly,  cutting  his  bread  and  not  shrinking  from 
the  crust.  "It's  a  house  I  seldom  go  into, 
though  I'm  fond  of  the  boys,  and  Martin 
Poyser's  a  good  fellow.  There's  too  many 
women  in  the  house  for  me:  I  hate  the 
sound  of  women's  voices ;  they  're  always  either 
a- buzz  or  a- squeak,  —  always  either  a- buzz  or 
a-squeak.  Mrs.  Poyser  keeps  at  the  top  o'  the 
talk  like  a  fife;  and  as  for  the  young  lasses,  I'd 
as  soon  look  at  water-grubs,  —  I  know  what 
they'll  turn  to,  —  stinging  gnats,  stinging  gnats. 


THE  NIGHT-SCHOOL  35S 

Here,  take  some  ale,  my  boy:  it's  been  drawn 
for  you,  —  it's  been  drawn  for  you." 

"Nay,  Mr.  Massey,"  said  Adam,  who  took 
his  old  friend's  whim  more  seriously  than  usual 
to-night,  "don't  be  so  hard  on  the  creaturs 
God  has  made  to  be  companions  for  us.  A 
working  man  'ud  be  badly  off  without  a  w4fe 
to  see  to  th'  house  and  the  victual,  and  make 
things  clean  and  comfortable." 

"Nonsense!  It's  the  silliest  lie  a  sensible 
man  like  you  ever  believed,  to  say  a  woman 
makes  a  house  comfortable.  It's  a  story  got 
up  because  the  women  are  there,  and  some- 
thing must  be  found  for  'em  to  do.  I  tell  you 
there  is  n't  a  thing  under  the  sun  that  needs  to 
be  done  at  all,  but  what  a  man  can  do  better 
than  a  woman,  unless  it's  bearing  children,  and 
they  do  that  in  a  poor  make- shift  way;  it  had 
better  ha'  been  left  to  the  men,  —  it  had  better 
ha'  been  left  to  the  men.  I  tell  you,  a  woman 
'ull  bake  you  a  pie  every  week  of  her  life,  and 
never  come  to  see  that  the  hotter  th'  oven  the 
shorter  the  time.  I  tell  you,  a  woman  'ull  make 
your  porridge  every  day  for  twenty  years,  and 
never  think  of  measuring  the  proportion  be- 
tween the  meal  and  the  milk,  —  a  little  more 
or  less,  she'll  think,  does  n't  signify:  the  por- 
ridge will  be  awk'ard  now  and  then:  if  it's 
wrong,  it's  summat  in  the  meal,  or  it's  summat 
in  the  milk,  or  it 's  summat  in  the  water.  Look 
at  me!  I  make  my  own  bread,  and  there's  no 
difference  between  one  batch  and  another  from 
year's  end  to  year's  end;  but  if  I'd  got  any 
other  woman  besides  Vixen  in  the  house,  I  must 
pray  to  the  Lord  every  baking  to  give  me  pa- 

VOL.  1—23 


354  ADAM  BEDE 

tience  if  the  bread  turned  out  heavy.  And  as 
for  cleanhness,  my  house  is  cleaner  than  any 
other  house  on  the  Common,  though  the  half 
of  'em  swarm  with  women.  Will  Baker's  lad 
comes  to  help  me  in  a  morning,  and  we  get  as 
much  cleaning  done  in  one  hour  without  any 
fuss,  as  a  woman  'ud  get  done  in  three,  and  all 
the  while  be  sending  buckets  o'  water  after  your 
ankles,  and  let  the  fender  and  the  fire-irons 
stand  in  the  middle  o'  the  floor  half  the  day, 
for  you  to  break  your  shins  against  'em.  Don't 
tell  me  about  God  having  made  such  creatures 
to  be  companions  for  us!  I  don't  say  but  he 
might  make  Eve  to  be  a  companion  to  Adam 
in  Paradise,  —  there  was  no  cooking  to  be 
spoilt  there,  and  no  other  woman  to  cackle  with 
and  make  mischief;  though  you  see  what  mis- 
chief she  did  as  soon  as  she'd  an  opportunity. 
But  it's  an  impious,  unscriptural  opinion  to  say 
a  woman's  a  blessing  to  a  man  now;  you  might 
as  well  say  adders  and  wasps  and  foxes  and 
wild  beasts  are  a  blessing,  when  they're  only 
the  evils  that  belong  to  this  state  o'  probation, 
which  it's  lawful  for  a  man  to  keep  as  clear  of 
as  he  can  in  this  life,  hoping  to  get  quit  of  'em 
forever  in  another,  —  hoping  to  get  quit  of  'em 
forever  in  another." 

Bartle  had  become  so  excited  and  angry  in  the 
course  of  his  invective  that  he  had  forgotten  his 
supper,  and  only  used  the  knife  for  the  purpose 
of  rapping  the  table  with  the  haft.  But  towards 
the  close  the  raps  became  so  sharp  and  frequent, 
and  his  voice  so  quarrelsome,  that  Vixen  felt  it 
incumbent  on  her  to  jump  out  of  the  hamper 
and  bark  vaguely. 


THE   NIGHT-SCHOOL  355 

"Quiet,  Vixen!"  snarled  Bartle,  turning 
round  upon  her.  "You're  like  the  rest  o'  the 
women,  —  always  putting  in  your  word  before 
you  know  why." 

Vixen  returned  to  her  hamper  again  in  humili- 
ation, and  her  master  continued  his  supper  in  a 
silence  which  Adam  did  not  choose  to  interrupt ; 
he  knew  the  old  man  would  be  in  a  better  hu- 
mour when  he  had  had  his  supper  and  lighted 
his  pipe.  Adam  was  used  to  hear  him  talk  in 
this  way,  but  had  never  learned  so  much  of 
Bartle's  past  life  as  to  know  whether  his  view 
of  married  comfort  was  founded  on  experience. 
On  that  point  Bartle  was  mute;  and  it  was  even 
a  secret  where  he  had  lived  previous  to  the 
twenty  years  in  which,  happily  for  the  peasants 
and  artisans  of  this  neighbourhood,  he  had  been 
settled  among  them  as  their  only  schoolmaster. 
If  anything  like  a  question  was  ventured  on 
this  subject,  Bartle  always  replied,  "Oh,  I've 
seen  many  places,  —  I've  been  a  deal  in  the 
south;"  and  the  Loamshire  men  would  as  soon 
have  thought  of  asking  for  a  particular  town  or 
village  in  Africa  as  in  "the  south." 

"Now  then,  my  boy,"  said  Bartle,  at  last, 
when  he  had  poured  out  his  second  mug  of  ale 
and  lighted  his  pipe,  —  "now  then,  we'll  have 
a  little  talk.  But  tell  me  first,  have  you  heard 
any  particular  news  to-day .?" 

"No,"  said  Adam,  "not  as  I  remember." 

"Ah,  they'll  keep  it  close,  they'll  keep  it 
close,  I  dare  say.  But  I  found  it  out  by  chance ; 
and  it's  news  that  may  concern  you,  Adam, 
else  I  'm  a  man  that  don't  know  a  superficial 
square  foot  from  a  solid." 


356  ADAM  BEDE 

Here  Bartle  gave  a  series  of  fierce  and  rapid 
puffs,  looking  earnestly  the  while  at  Adam. 
Your  impatient  loquacious  man  has  never  any 
notion  of  keeping  his  pipe  alight  by  gentle  meas- 
ured puffs;  he  is  always  letting  it  go  nearly 
out,  and  then  punishing  it  for  that  negligence. 
At  last  he  said,  — 

"  Satchell  's  got  a  paralytic  stroke.  I  found 
it  out  from  the  lad  they  sent  to  Treddleston  for 
the  doctor,  before  seven  o'clock  this  morning. 
He's  a  good  way  beyond  sixty,  you  know;  it  s 
much  if  he  gets  over  it." 

"Well,"  said  Adam,  "I  dare  say  there 'd  be 
more  rejoicing  than  sorrow  in  the  parish  at  his 
being  laid  up.  He  's  been  a  selfish,  tale-bearing, 
mischievous  fellow ;  but,  after  all,  there 's  no- 
body he 's  done  so  much  harm  to  as  to  th'  old 
Squire.  Though  it's  the  Squire  himself  as  is 
to  blame,  —  making  a  stupid  fellow  like  that 
a  sort  o'  man-of-all-work,  just  to  save  th'  ex- 
pense of  having  a  proper  steward  to  look  after 
th'  estate.  And  he  's  lost  more  by  ill-manage- 
ment o'  the  woods,  I'll  be  bound,  than  'ud  pay 
for  two  stewards.  If  he's  laid  on  the  shelf,  it's 
to  be  hoped  he  '11  make  way  for  a  better  man ; 
but  I  don't  see  how  it's  like  to  make  any  differ- 
ence to  me." 

"But  I  see  it,  but  I  see  it,"  said  Bartle;  "and 
others  besides  me.  The  Captain's  coming  of 
age  now,  —  you  know  that  as  well  as  I  do,  — 
and  it's  to  be  expected  he'll  have  a  little  more 
voice  in  things.  And  I  know,  and  you  know  too, 
what  'ud  be  the  Captain's  wish  about  the  woods, 
if  there  was  a  fair  opportunity  for  making  a 
change.     He's  said,  in  plenty  of  people's  hear- 


THE   NIGHT-SCHOOL  357 

ing,  that  he'd  make  you  manager  of  the  woods 
to-morrow,  if  he'd  the  power.  Why,  Carroll, 
Mr.  Irwine's  butler,  heard  him  say  so  to  the 
parson  not  many  days  ago.  Carroll  looked  in 
when  we  were  smoking  our  pipes  o'  Saturday 
night  at  Casson's,  and  he  told  us  about  it;  and 
whenever  anybody  says  a  good  word  for  you, 
the  parson's  ready  to  back  it,  that  I'll  answer 
for.  It  was  pretty  well  talked  over,  I  can  tell 
you,  at  Casson's,  and  one  and  another  had  their 
fling  at  you ;  for  if  donkeys  set  to  work  to  sing, 
you're  pretty  sure  what  the  tune '11  be." 

"Why,  did  they  talk  it  over  before  Mr. 
Burge.^"  said  Adam;  "or  wasn't  he  there  o' 
Saturday.^" 

"Oh,  he  went  away  before  Carroll  came; 
and  Casson  —  he's  always  for  setting  other 
folks  right,  you  know  —  would  have  it  Burge 
was  the  man  to  have  the  management  of  the 
woods.  *  A  substantial  man,'  says  he,  '  with 
pretty  near  sixty  years'  experience  o'  timber; 
it  'ud  be  all  very  well  for  Adam  Bede  to  act 
under  him,  but  it  is  n't  to  be  supposed  the 
Squire  'ud  appoint  a  young  fellow  like  Adam, 
when  there's  his  elders  and  betters  at  hand!' 
But  I  said,  '  That's  a  pretty  notion  o'  yours, 
Casson.  Why,  Burge  is  the  man  to  buy  tim- 
ber; would  you  put  the  woods  into  his  hands, 
and  let  him  make  his  own  bargains  ?  I  think 
you  don't  leave  your  customers  to  score  their 
own  drink,  do  you  ?  And  as  for  age,  what  that's 
worth  depends  on  the  quality  o'  the  liquor. 
It's  pretty  well  known  who's  the  backbone  of 
Jonathan  Burge's  business.' " 

"I    thank   you    for   your   good    word,    Mr. 


358  ADAM   BEDE 

Massey,"  said  Adam.  "But,  for  all  that, 
Casson  was  partly  i'  the  right  for  once.  There's 
not  much  likelihood  that  th'  old  Squire  'ud  ever 
consent  t'  employ  me:  I  offended  him  about 
two  years  ago,  and  he 's  never  forgiven  me." 

"Why,  how  was  that?  You  never  told  me 
about  it,"  said  Bartle. 

"Oh,  it  was  a  bit  o'  nonsense.  I'd  made  a 
frame  for  a  screen  for  Miss  Lyddy,  —  she 's 
allays  making  something  with  her  worsted- 
work,  you  know,  —  and  she  'd  give  me  particular 
orders  about  this  screen,  and  there  was  as  much 
talking  and  measuring  as  if  we  'd  been  planning 
a  house.  However,  it  was  a  nice  bit  o'  work, 
and  I  liked  doing  it  for  her.  But,  you  know, 
those  little  friggling  things  take  a  deal  o'  time. 
I  only  worked  at  it  in  over-hours,  —  often  late 
at  night,  —  and  I  had  to  go  to  Treddleston  over 
an'  over  again,  about  little  bits  o'  brass  nails 
and  such  gear ;  and  I  turned  the  little  knobs  and 
the  legs,  and  carved  th'  open  work,  after  a  pat- 
tern, as  nice  as  could  be.  And  I  was  uncom- 
mon pleased  with  it  when  it  was  done.  And 
when  I  took  it  home.  Miss  Lyddy  sent  for  me 
to  bring  it  into  her  drawing-room,  so  as  she 
might  give  me  directions  about  fastening  on 
the  work,  —  very  fine  needlework,  Jacob  and 
Rachel  a- kissing  one  another  among  the  sheep, 
like  a  picture,  —  and  th'  old  Squire  was  sitting 
there,  for  he  mostly  sits  with  her.  Well,  she  was 
mighty  pleased  with  the  screen,  and  then  she 
wanted  to  know  what  pay  she  was  to  give  me. 
I  did  n't  speak  at  random,  —  you  know  it's  not 
my  way;  I'd  calculated  pretty  close,  though  I 
had  n't  made  out  a  bill,  and  I  said,  '  One  pound 


THE   NIGHT-SCHOOL  S59 

thirteen.'  That  was  paying  for  the  mater'als 
and  paying  me,  but  none  too  much,  for  my  work. 
Th'  old  Squire  looked  up  at  this,  and  peered  in 
in  his  way  at  the  screen,  and  said,  'One  pound 
thirteen  for  a  gimcrack  like  that!  Lydia,  my 
dear,  if  you  must  spend  money  on  these  things, 
why  don't  you  get  them  at  Rosseter,  instead  of 
paying  double  price  for  clumsy  work  here } 
Such  things  are  not  work  for  a  carpenter  like 
Adam.  Give  him  a  guinea,  and  no  more.' 
Well,  Miss  Lyddy,  I  reckon,  believed  what  he 
told  her,  and  she 's  not  overfond  o'  parting  with 
the  money  herself,  —  she 's  not  a  bad  woman 
at  bottom,  but  she's  been  brought  up  under  his 
thumb;  so  she  began  fidgeting  with  her  purse, 
and  turned  as  red  as  her  ribbon.  But  I  made 
a  bow,  and  said,  'No,  thank  you,  madam;  I'll 
make  you  a  present  o'  the  screen,  if  you  please. 
I  've  charged  the  regular  price  for  my  work,  and 
I  know  it 's  done  well ;  and  I  know,  begging  his 
honor's  pardon,  that  you  could  n't  get  such  a 
screen  at  Rosseter  under  two  guineas.  I'm 
willing  to  give  you  my  work,  —  it 's  been  done 
in  my  own  time,  and  nobody's  got  anything  to 
do  with  it  but  me ;  but  if  I  'm  paid,  I  can't  take 
a  smaller  price  than  I  asked,  because  that  'ud 
be  like  saying  I'd  asked  more  than  was  just. 
With  your  leave,  madam,  I'll  bid  you  good 
morning.'  I  made  my  bow  and  went  out  before 
she'd  time  to  say  any  more,  for  she  stood  with 
the  purse  in  her  hand,  looking  almost  foolish. 
I  did  n't  mean  to  be  disrespectful,  and  I  spoke 
as  polite  as  I  could ;  but  I  can  give  in  to  no  man, 
if  he  wants  to  make  it  out  as  I  'm  trying  to  over- 
reach him.     And  in  the  evening  the  footman 


360  ADAM   BEDE 

brought  me  the  one  pound  thirteen  wrapped  in 
paper.  But  since  then  I've  seen  pretty  clear 
as  th'  old  Squire  can't  abide  me." 

"That's  likely  enough,  that's  likely  enough," 
said  Bartle,  meditatively.  "The  only  way  to 
bring  him  round  would  be  to  show  him  what  was 
for  his  own  interest ;  and  that  the  Captain  may 
do,  —  that  the  Captain  may  do." 

"Nay,  I  don't  know,"  said  Adam;  "the 
Squire's  'cute  enough,  but  it  takes  something 
else  besides  'cuteness  to  make  folks  see  what'll 
be  their  interest  in  the  long-run.  It  takes  some 
conscience  and  belief  in  right  and  wrong,  I  see 
that  pretty  clear.  You'd  hardly  ever  bring 
round  th'  old  Squire  to  believe  he'd  gain  as 
much  in  a  straightfor'ard  way  as  by  tricks  and 
turns.  And,  besides,  I've  not  much  mind  to 
work  under  him;  I  don't  want  to  quarrel  with 
any  gentleman,  more  particular  an  old  gentle- 
man turned  eighty,  and  I  know  we  could  n't 
agree  long.  If  the  Captain  was  master  o'  th' 
estate,  it  'ud  be  different ;  he 's  got  a  conscience 
and  a  will  to  do  right,  and  I  'd  sooner  work  for 
him  nor  for  any  man  living." 

"Well,  well,  my  boy,  if  good  luck  knocks  at 
your  door,  don't  you  put  your  head  out  at  win- 
dow and  tell  it  to  be  gone  about  its  business, 
that's  all.  You  must  learn  to  deal  with  odd 
and  even  in  life,  as  well  as  in  figures.  I  tell  you 
now,  as  I  told  you  ten  years  ago,  when  you  pom- 
melled young  Mike  Holdsworth  for  wanting  to 
pass  a  bad  shilling,  before  you  knew  whether  he 
was  in  jest  or  earnest,  —  you  're  over- hasty  and 
proud,  and  apt  to  set  your  teeth  against  folks 
that  don't  square  to  your  notions.     It 's  no  harrj 


THE   NIGHT-SCHOOL  361 

for  me  to  be  a  bit  fiery  and  stiff-backed;  I'm 
an  old  schoolmaster,  and  shall  never  want  to 
get  on  to  a  higher  perch.  But  where 's  the  use 
of  all  the  time  I  've  spent  in  teaching  you  writing 
and  mapping  and  mensuration,  if  you're  not 
to  get  for'ard  in  the  world,  and  show  folks 
there's  some  advantage  in  having  a  head  on 
your  shoulders,  instead  of  a  turnip  ?  Do  you 
mean  to  go  on  turning  up  your  nose  at  every 
opportunity,  because  it's  got  a  bit  of  a  smell 
about  it  that  nobody  finds  out  but  yourself? 
It 's  as  foolish  as  that  notion  o'  yours  that  a  wife 
is  to  make  a  working  man  comfortable.  Stuff 
and  nonsense !  —  stuff  and  nonsense !  Leave 
that  to  fools  that  never  got  beyond  a  sum  in 
simple  addition.  Simple  addition  enough !  Add 
one  fool  to  another  fool,  and  in  six  years'  time 
six  fools  more,  —  they  're  all  of  the  same  de- 
nomination, big  and  little's  nothing  to  do  with 
the  sum !" 

During  this  rather  heated  exhortation  to  cool- 
ness and  discretion  the  pipe  had  gone  out,  and 
Bartle  gave  the  climax  to  his  speech  by  striking 
a  light  furiously,  after  which  he  puffed  with 
fierce  resolution,  fixing  his  eye  still  on  Adam, 
who  was  trying  not  to  laugh. 

"There's  a  good  deal  o'  sense  in  what  you 
say,  Mr.  Massey,"  Adam  began,  as  soon  as  he 
felt  quite  serious,  "as  there  always  is.  But 
you'll  give  in  that  it's  no  business  o'  mine  to  be 
building  on  chances  that  may  never  happen. 
What  I  've  got  to  do  is  to  work  as  well  as  I  can 
with  the  tools  and  mater'als  I've  got  in  my 
hands.  If  a  good  chance  comes  to  me,  I  '11 
think  o'  what  you  've  been  saying ;  but  till  then, 


S62  ADAM  BEDE 

I've  got  nothing  to  do  but  to  trust  to  my  own 
hands  and  my  own  headpiece.  I'm  turning 
over  a  little  plan  for  Seth  and  me  to  go  into  the 
cabinet-making  a  bit  by  ourselves,  and  win  a 
extra  pound  or  two  in  that  way.  But  it's  get- 
ting late  now,  —  it'll  be  pretty  near  eleven  be- 
fore I'm  at  home,  and  mother  may  happen  to 
lie  awake;  she's  more  fidgety  nor  usual  now. 
So  I'll  bid  you  good-night." 

"Well,  well,  we  '11  go  to  the  gate  with  you,  — 
it 's  a  fine  night,"  said  Bartle,  taking  up  his  stick. 
Vixen  was  at  once  on  her  legs,  and  without  fur- 
ther words  the  three  walked  out  into  the  star- 
light, by  the  side  of  Bartle's  potato- beds,  to  the 
little  gate. 

"Come  to  the  music  o'  Friday  night,  if  you 
can,  my  boy,"  said  the  old  man,  as  he  closed  the 
gate  after  Adam,  and  leaned  against  it. 

"Ay,  ay,"  said  Adam,  striding  along  towards 
the  streak  of  pale  road.  He  was  the  only  ob- 
ject moving  on  the  wide  Common.  The  two 
gray  donkeys,  just  visible  in  front  of  the  gorse 
bushes,  stood  as  still  as  limestone  images,  as 
still  as  the  gray- thatched  roof  of  the  mud  cot- 
tage a  little  farther  on.  Bartle  kept  his  eye  on 
the  moving  figure  till  it  passed  into  the  darkness ; 
while  Vixen,  in  a  state  of  divided  affection,  had 
twice  run  back  to  the  house  to  bestow  a  paren- 
thetic lick  on  her  puppies. 

"Ay,  ay,"  muttered  the  schoolmaster,  as 
Adam  disappeared;  "there  you  go,  stalking 
along,  —  stalking  along ;  but  you  would  n't 
have  been  what  you  are  if  you  had  n't  had  a  bit 
of  old  lame  Bartle  inside  you.  The  strongest 
calf  must  have  something  to  suck  at.     There's 


THE   NIGHT-SCHOOL  36S 

plenty  of  these  big,  lumbering  fellows  'ud  never 
nave  known  their  a  b  c,  if  it  had  n't  been  for 
Bartle  Massey.  Well,  well,  Vixen,  you  foolish 
wench,  what  is  it,  what  is  it?  I  must  go  in, 
must  I  ?  Ay,  ay,  I  'm  never  to  have  a  will  o'  my 
own  any  more.  And  those  pups,  what  do  you 
think  I'm  to  do  with  'em,  when  they're  twice 
as  big  as  you  ?  —  for  I'm  pretty  sure  the  father 
was  that  hulking  bull- terrier  of  Will  Baker's,  — 
wasn't  he  now,  eh,  you  sly  hussy?"  (Here 
Vixen  tucked  her  tail  between  her  legs,  and  ran 
forward  into  the  house.  Subjects  are  some- 
times broached  which  a  well-bred  female  will 
ignore.) 

"But  where 's  the  use  of  talking  to  a  woman 
with  babbies?"  continued  Bartle:  "she's  got 
no  conscience,  —  no  conscience ;  it 's  all  run  to 
milk." 


Booft  CI)ree 


CHAPTER  I 

GOING    TO    THE    BIRTHDAY    FEAST 

THE  30th  of  July  was  come,  and  it  was  one 
of  those  half-dozen  warm  days  which 
sometimes  occur  in  the  middle  of  a  rainy 
English  summer.  No  rain  had  fallen  for  the 
last  three  or  four  days,  and  the  weather  was  per- 
fect for  that  time  of  the  year;  there  was  less 
dust  than  usual  on  the  dark-green  hedgerows, 
and  on  the  wild  camomile  that  starred  the  road- 
side, yet  the  grass  was  dry  enough  for  the  little 
children  to  roll  on  it,  and  there  was  no  cloud  but 
a  long  dash  of  light,  downy  ripple,  high,  high  up 
in  the  far-off  blue  sky.  Perfect  weather  for  an 
out- door  July,  merrymaking,  yet  surely  not  the 
best  time  of  year  to  be  born  in.  Nature  seems 
to  make  a  hot  pause  just  then,  —  all  the  love- 
liest flowers  are  gone;  the  sweet  time  of  early 
growth  and  vague  hopes  is  past;  and  yet  the 
time  of  harvest  and  ingathering  is  not  come,  and 
we  tremble  at  the  possible  storms  that  may  ruin 
the  precious  fruit  in  the  moment  of  its  ripeness. 
The  woods  are  all  one  dark  monotonous  green; 
the  wagon-loads  of  hay  no  longer  creep  along 
the  lanes,  scattering  their  sweet- smelling  frag- 
ments on  the  blackberry  branches ;  the  pastures 


THE   BIRTHDAY   FEAST         365 

are  often  a  little  tanned,  yet  the  corn  has  not  got 
its  last  splendour  of  red  and  gold;  the  lambs 
and  calves  have  lost  all  traces  of  their  innocent, 
frisky  prettiness,  and  have  become  stupid  young 
sheep  and  cows.  But  it  is  a  time  of  leisure  on 
the  farm,  —  that  pause  between  hay  and  corn 
harvest;  and  so  the  farmers  and  labourers  in 
Hayslope  and  Broxton  thought  the  Captain  did 
well  to  come  of  age  just  then,  when  they  could 
give  their  undivided  minds  to  the  flavour  of  the 
great  cask  of  ale  which  had  been  brewed  the 
autumn  after  "the  heir"  was  born,  and  was  to 
be  tapped  on  his  twenty-first  birthday.  The 
air  had  been  merry  with  the  ringing  of  church- 
bells  very  early  this  morning,  and  every  one  had 
made  haste  to  get  through  the  needful  work  be- 
fore twelve,  wdien  it  would  be  time  to  think  of 
getting  ready  to  go  to  the  Chase. 

The  mid- day  sun  was  streaming  into  Hetty's 
bed-chamber,  and  there  was  no  blind  to  temper 
the  heat  with  which  it  fell  on  her  head  as  she 
looked  at  herself  in  the  old  specked  glass.  Still, 
that  was  the  only  glass  she  had  in  which  she 
could  see  her  neck  and  arms,  for  the  small  hang- 
ing glass  she  had  fetched  out  of  the  next  room  — 
the  room  that  had  been  Dinah's  —  would  show 
her  nothing  below  her  little  chin,  and  that  beau- 
tiful bit  of  neck  where  the  roundness  of  her  cheek 
melted  into  another  roundness  shadowed  by 
dark  delicate  curls.  And  to-day  she  thought 
more  than  usual  about  her  neck  and  arms ;  for 
at  the  dance  this  evening  she  was  not  to  wear 
any  neckerchief,  and  she  had  been  busy  yester- 
day with  her  spotted  pink-and-white  frock,  that 
she  might  make  the  sleeves  either  long  or  short 


366  ADAM   BEDE 

at  will.  She  was  dressed  now  just  as  she  was  to 
be  in  the  evening,  with  a  tucker  made  of  "real" 
lace,  which  her  aunt  had  lent  her  for  this  un- 
paralleled occasion,  but  with  no  ornaments  be- 
sides ;  she  had  even  taken  out  her  small  round 
ear-rings  which  she  wore  every  day.  But  there 
was  something  more  to  be  done,  apparently,  be- 
fore she  put  on  her  neckerchief  and  long  sleeves, 
which  she  was  to  wear  in  the  daytime,  for  now 
she  unlocked  the  drawer  that  held  her  private 
treasures.  It  is  more  than  a  month  since  we  saw 
her  unlock  that  drawer  before,  and  now  it  holds 
new  treasures,  so  much  more  precious  than  the 
old  ones  that  these  are  thrust  into  the  corner. 
Hetty  would  not  care  to  put  the  large  coloured 
glass  ear-rings  into  her  ears  now ;  for  see !  she 
has  got  a  beautiful  pair  of  gold  and  pearls  and 
garnet,  lying  snugly  in  a  pretty  little  box  lined 
with  white  satin.  Oh,  the  delight  of  taking  out 
that  little  box  and  looking  at  the  ear-rings !  Do 
not  reason  about  it,  my  philosophical  reader, 
and  say  that  Hetty,  being  very  pretty,  must  have 
known  that  it  did  not  signify  whether  she  had 
on  any  ornsiments  or  not;  and  that,  moreover, 
to  look  at  ear-rings  which  she  could  not  possibly 
wear  out  of  her  bed- room  could  hardly  be  a 
satisfaction,  the  essence  of  vanity  being  a  refer- 
ence to  the  impressions  produced  on  others; 
you  will  never  understand  women's  natures  if 
you  are  so  excessively  rational.  Try  rather  to 
divest  yourself  of  all  your  rational  prejudices,  as 
much  as  if  you  were  studying  the  psychology 
of  a  canary-bird,  and  only  watch  the  movements 
of  this  pretty  round  creature  as  she  turns  her 
head  on  one  side  with  an  unconscious  smile  at 


THE   BIRTHDAY   FEAST         367 

the  ear-rings  nestled  in  the  Httle  box.  Ah,  you 
think,  it  is  for  the  sake  of  the  person  who  has 
given  them  to  her,  and  her  thoughts  are  gone 
back  now  to  the  moment  when  they  were  put 
into  her  hands.  No ;  else  why  should  she  have 
cared  to  have  ear-rings  rather  than  anything 
else  ?  and  I  know  that  she  had  longed  for  ear- 
rings from  among:  all  the  ornaments  she  could 
imagine. 

"Little,  little  ears!"  Arthur  had  said,  pre- 
tending to  pinch  them  one  evening,  as  Hetty  sat 
beside  him  on  the  grass  without  her  hat.  "I 
wish  I  had  some  pretty  ear-rings!"  she  said  in 
a  moment,  almost  before  she  knew  v/hat  she  was 
saying,  —  the  wish  lay  so  close  to  her  lips,  it 
would  flutter  past  them  at  the  slightest  breath. 
And  the  next  day,  —  it  was  only  last  week,  — 
Arthur  had  ridden  over  to  Rosseter  on  purpose 
to  buy  them.  That  little  wish  so  naively  uttered 
seemed  to  him  the  prettiest  bit  of  childishness; 
he  had  never  heard  anything  like  it  before ;  and 
he  had  wrapped  the  box  up  in  a  great  many 
covers,  that  he  might  see  Hetty  unwTapping 
it  with  growing  curiosity,  till  at  last  her  eyes 
flashed  back  their  new  delight  into  his. 

No,  she  was  not  thinking  most  of  the  giver 
when  she  smiled  at  the  ear-rings,  for  now  she 
is  taking  them  out  of  the  box,  not  to  press  them 
to  her  lips,  but  to  fasten  them  in  her  ears,  — 
only  for  one  moment  to  see  how  pretty  they  look, 
as  she  peeps  at  them  in  the  glass  against  the  wall, 
with  first  one  position  of  the  head  and  then  an- 
other, like  a  listening  bird.  It  is  impossible  to 
be  wise  on  the  subject  of  ear-rings  as  one  looks 
at  her;    what  should  those  delicate  pearls  and 


368  ADAM   BEDE 

crystals  be  made  for,  if  not  for  such  ears  ?  One 
cannot  even  find  fault  with  the  tiny  round  hole 
which  they  leave  when  they  are  taken  out ;  per- 
haps water- nixies,  and  such  lovely  things  with- 
out souls,  have  these  little  round  holes  in  their 
ears  by  nature,  ready  to  hang  jewels  in.  And 
Hetty  must  be  one  of  them :  it  is  too  painful 
to  think  that  she  is  a  woman,  with  a  woman's 
destiny  before  her,  —  a  woman  spinning  in 
young  ignorance  a  light  web  of  folly  and  vain 
hopes  which  may  one  day  close  round  her  and 
press  upon  her,  a  rancorous  poisoned  garment, 
changing  all  at  once  her  fluttering,  trivial  butter- 
fly sensations  into  a  life  of  deep  human  anguish. 

But  she  cannot  keep  in  the  ear-rings  long, 
else  she  may  make  her  uncle  and  aunt  wait. 
She  puts  them  quickly  into  the  box  again,  and 
shuts  them  up.  Some  day  she  will  be  able  to 
wear  any  ear-rings  she  likes,  and  already  she 
lives  in  an  invisible  world  of  brilliant  costumes, 
shimmering  gauze,  soft  satin,  and  velvet,  such 
as  the  lady's-maid  at  the  Chase  has  shown  her 
in  Miss  Lydia's  wardrobe;  she  feels  the  brace- 
lets on  her  arms,  and  treads  on  a  soft  carpet  in 
front  of  a  tall  mirror.  But  she  has  one  thing 
in  the  drawer  which  she  can  venture  to  wear 
to-day,  because  she  can  hang  it  on  the  chain  of 
dark- brown  berries  which  she  has  been  used  to 
wear  on  grand  days,  with  a  tiny  flat  scent-bottle 
at  the  end  of  it  tucked  inside  her  frock;  and 
she  must  put  on  her  brown  berries,  —  her  neck 
would  look  so  unfinished  without  it.  Hetty  was 
not  quite  as  fond  of  the  locket  as  of  the  ear-rings, 
though  it  was  a  handsome  large  locket  with 
enamelled  flowers  at  the  back  and  a  beautiful 


THE   BIRTHDAY   FEAST         369 

gold  border  round  the  glass,  which  showed  a 
light-brown  slightly  waving  lock,  forming  a 
background  for  two  little  dark  rings.  She  must 
keep  it  under  her  clothes,  and  no  one  would  see 
it.  But  Hetty  had  another  passion,  only  a  little 
less  strong  than  her  love  of  finery ;  and  that  other 
passion  made  her  like  to  wear  the  locket  even 
hidden  in  her  bosom.  She  would  always  have 
worn  it,  if  she  had  dared  to  encounter  her  aunt's 
questions  about  a  ribbon  round  her  neck.  So 
now  she  slipped  it  on  along  her  chain  of  dark- 
brown  berries,  and  snapped  the  chain  round  her 
neck.  It  was  not  a  very  long  chain,  only  allow- 
ing the  locket  to  hang  a  little  way  below  the 
edge  of  her  frock.  And  now  she  had  nothing 
to  do  but  to  put  on  her  long  sleeves,  her  new 
white  gauze  neckerchief,  and  her  straw  hat 
trimmed  with  white  to-day  instead  of  the  pink, 
which  had  become  rather  faded  under  the  July 
sun.  That  hat  made  the  drop  of  bitterness  in 
Hetty's  cup  to-day,  for  it  was  not  quite  new,  — 
everybody  would  see  that  it  was  a  little  tanned 
against  the  white  ribbon,  —  and  Mary  Burge, 
she  felt  sure,  w^ould  have  a  new  hat  or  bonnet 
on.  She  looked  for  consolation  at  her  fine  white 
cotton  stockings ;  they  really  were  very  nice  in- 
deed, and  she  had  given  almost  all  her  spare 
money  for  them.  Hetty's  dream  of  the  future 
could  not  make  her  insensible  to  triumph  in  the 

{)resent.  To  be  sure.  Captain  Donnithorne 
oved  her  so,  that  he  would  never  care  about 
looking  at  other  people;  but  then  those  other 
people  did  n't  know  how  he  loved  her,  and  she 
was  not  satisfied  to  appear  shabby  and  insignifi- 
cant in  their  eyes  even  for  a  short  space. 

VOL.  I — 24 


370  ADAM   BEDE 

The  whole  party  was  assembled  in  the  house- 
place  when  Hetty  went  down,  all  of  course  in 
their  Sunday  clothes;  and  the  bells  had  been 
ringing  so  this  morning  in  honour  of  the  Cap- 
tain's twenty-first  birthday,  and  the  work  had 
all  been  got  done  so  early,  that  Marty  and 
Tommy  were  not  quite  easy  in  their  minds  until 
their  mother  had  assured  them  that  going  to 
church  was  not  part  of  the  day's  festivities.  Mr. 
Poyser  had  once  suggested  that  the  house  should 
be  shut  up,  and  left  to  take  care  of  itself ;  "for," 
said  he,  "there's  no  danger  of  anybody's  break- 
ing in,  —  everybody '11  be  at  the  Chase,  thieves 
an'  all.  If  we  lock  th'  house  up,  all  the  men 
can  go;  it's  a  day  they  wonna  see  twice  i'  their 
lives."  But  Mrs.  Poyser  answered  with  great 
decision:  "I  never  left  the  house  to  take  care 
of  itself  since  I  was  a  missis,  and  I  never  will. 
There's  been  ill-looking  tramps  enoo'  about 
the  place  this  last  week,  to  carry  off  every  ham 
an'  every  spoon  we'n  got;  and  they  all  collogue 
together,  them  tramps,  as  it's  a  mercy  they 
hanna  come  and  poisoned  the  dogs  and  mur- 
dered us  all  in  our  beds  afore  we  knowed,  some 
Friday  night  when  we'n  got  the  money  in  th' 
house  to  pay  the  men.  And  it's  like  enough 
the  tramps  know  where  we're  going  as  well  as 
we  do  oursens ;  for  if  Old  Harry  wants  any 
work  done,  you  may  be  sure  he'll  find  the 
means." 

"Nonsense  about  murdering  us  in  our  beds," 
said  Mr.  Poyser.  "I've  got  a  gun  i'  our  room, 
hanna  I  ?  and  thee  'st  got  ears  as  'ud  find  it  out 
if  a  mouse  was  gnawing  the  bacon.  Howiver, 
if  thee   wouldstna  be  easy,  Alick  can  stay  at 


THE   BIRTHDAY   FEAST         371 

home  i'  the  forepart  o'  the  day,  and  Tim  can 
come  back  tow'rds  five  o'clock,  and  let  Alick 
have  his  turn.  They  may  let  Growler  loose  if 
anybody  offers  to  do  mischief;  and  there's 
Alick' s  dog,  too,  ready  enough  to  set  his  tooth 
in  a  tramp  if  Alick  gives  him  a  wink." 

Mrs.  Poyser  accepted  this  compromise,  but 
thought  it  advisable  to  bar  and  bolt  to  the  ut- 
most ;  and  now,  at  the  last  moment  before  start- 
ing, Nancy,  the  dairy-maid,  was  closing  the 
shutters  of  the  house- place,  although  the  win- 
dow, lying  under  the  immediate  observation  of 
Alick  and  the  dogs,  might  have  been  supposed 
the  least  likely  to  be  selected  for  a  burglarious 
attempt. 

The  covered  cart,  without  springs,  was  stand- 
ing ready  to  carry  the  whole  family  except  the 
men-servants.  Mr.  Poyser  and  the  grandfather 
sat  on  the  seat  in  front,  and  within  there  was 
room  for  all  the  women  and  children ;  the  fuller 
the  cart  the  better,  because  then  the  jolting 
would  not  hurt  so  much,  and  Nancy's  broad 
person  and  thick  arms  were  an  excellent  cushion 
to  be  pitched  on.  But  Mr.  Poyser  drove  at 
no  more  than  a  walking  pace,  that  there  might 
be  as  little  risk  of  jolting  as  possible  on  this 
warm  day;  and  there  was  tiine  to  exchange 
greetings  and  remarks  with  the  foot-passengers 
who  were  going  the  same  way,  specking  the 
paths  between  the  green  meadows  and  the 
golden  cornfields  with  bits  of  movable  bright 
colour,  —  a  scarlet  waistcoat  to  match  the 
poppies  that  nodded  a  little  too  thickly  among 
the  corn,  or  a  dark- blue  neckerchief  with  ends 
flaunting  across  a  bran-new  white  smock-frock. 


372  ADAM   BEDE 

All  Broxton  and  all  Hayslope  were  to  be  at  the 
Chase,  and  make  merry  there  in  honour  of  ' '  th' 
heir;"  and  the  old  men  and  women,  who  had 
never  been  so  far  down  this  side  of  the  hill  for 
the  last  twenty  years,  were  being  brought  from 
Broxton  and  Hayslope  in  one  of  the  farmer's 
wagons,  at  Mr.  Irwine's  suggestion.  The 
church- bells  had  struck  up  again  now,  —  a  last 
tune,  before  the  ringers  came  down  the  hill  to 
have  their  share  in  the  festival ;  and  before  the 
bells  had  finished,  other  music  was  heard  ap- 

Eroaching,  so  that  even  Old  Brown,  the  sober 
orse  that  was  drawing  Mr.  Poyser's  cart,  began 
to  prick  up  his  ears.  It  was  the  band  of  the 
Benefit  Club,  which  had  mustered  in  all  its 
glory;  that  is  to  say,  in  bright-blue  scarfs  and 
blue  favours,  and  carrying  its  banner  with  the 
motto,  "Let  brotherly  love  continue,"  encir- 
cling a  picture  of  a  stone-pit. 

The  carts,  of  course,  were  not  to  enter  the 
Chase.  Every  one  must  get  down  at  the  lodges, 
and  the  vehicles  must  be  sent  back. 

"Why,  the  Chase  is  like  a  fair  a'ready,"  said 
Mrs.  Poyser,  as  she  got  down  from  the  cart,  and 
saw  the  groups  scattered  under  the  great  oaks, 
and  the  boys  running  about  in  the  hot  sunshine 
to  survey  the  tall  poles  surmounted  by  the  flut- 
tering garments  that  were  to  be  the  prize  of  the 
successful  climbers.  "I  should  ha'  thought 
there  wasna  so  many  people  i'  the  two  parishes. 
Mercy  on  us!  how  hot  it  is  out  o'  the  shade! 
Come  here,  Totty,  else  your  little  face  'ull  be 
burnt  to  a  scratchin' !  lliey  might  ha'  cooked 
the  dinners  i'  that  open  space,  an'  saved  the  fires. 
I  shall  go  to  Mrs.  Best's  room  an'  sit  down." 


THE   BIRTHDAY   FEAST         373 

"Stop  a  bit,  stop  a  bit,"  said  Mr.  Poyser. 
"There's  th'  wagin  coming  wi'  th'  old  folks  in 
't;  it'll  be  such  a  sight  as  wonna  come  o'er 
again,  to  see  'em  get  down  an'  walk  along  all 
together.  You  remember  some  on  'em  i'  their 
prime,  eh,  father .?" 

"Ay,  ay,"  said  old  Martin,  walking  slowly 
under  the  shade  of  the  lodge  porch,  from  which 
he  could  see  the  aged  party  descend.  "I  re- 
member Jacob  Taft  walking  fifty  mile  after  the 
Scotch  raybels,  when  they  turned  back  from 
Stoniton." 

He  felt  himself  quite  a  youngster,  with  a  long 
life  before  him,  as  he  saw  the  Hayslope  patriarch 
old  Feyther  Taft,  descend  from  the  wagon  and 
walk  towards  him,  in  his  brown  nightcap,  and 
leaning  on  his  two  sticks. 

"Well,  Mester  Taft,"  shouted  old  Martin, 
at  the  utmost  stretch  of  his  voice,  —  for  though 
he  knew  the  old  man  w^as  stone  deaf,  he  could 
not  omit  the  propriety  of  a  greeting,  —  "you're 
hearty  yet.  You  can  enjoy  yoursen  to-day,  for 
all  you're  ninety  an'  better." 

"Your  sarvant,  mesters,  your  sarvant,"  said 
Feyther  Taft  in  a  treble  tone,  perceiving  that 
he  was  in  company. 

The  aged  group,  under  care  of  sons  or  daugh- 
ters, themselves  worn  and  gray,  passed  on  along 
the  least-winding  carriage-road  towards  the 
house,  where  a  special  table  was  prepared  for 
them;  while  the  Poyser  party  wisely  struck 
across  the  grass  under  the  shade  of  the  great 
trees,  but  not  out  of  view  of  the  house-front,  with 
its  sloping  lawn  and  flower-beds,  or  of  the  pretty 
striped  marquee  at  the  edge  of  the  lawn,  stand- 


374  ADAM   BEDE 

ing  at  right  angles  with  two  larger  marquees  on 
each  side  of  the  open  green  space  where  the 
games  were  to  be  played.  The  house  would 
have  been  nothing  but  a  plain  square  mansion 
of  Queen  Anne's  time,  but  for  the  remnant  of 
an  old  abbey  to  which  it  was  united  at  one  end, 
in  much  the  same  way  as  one  may  sometimes 
see  a  new  farmhouse  rising  high  and  prim  at  the 
end  of  older  and  lower  farm-offices.  The  fine 
old  remnant  stood  a  little  backward  and  under 
the  shadow  of  tall  beeches;  but  the  sun  was 
now  on  the  taller  and  more  advanced  front,  the 
blinds  were  all  down,  and  the  house  seemed 
asleep  in  the  hot  mid-day.  It  made  Hetty  quite 
sad  to  look  at  it ;  Arthur  must  be  somewhere  in 
the  back  rooms,  with  the  grand  company,  where 
he  could  not  possibly  know  that  she  was  come, 
and  she  should  not  see  him  for  a  long,  long 
while,  —  not  till  after  dinner,  when  they  said 
he  was  to  come  up  and  make  a  speech. 

But  Hetty  was  wrong  in  part  of  her  conjec- 
ture. No  grand  company  was  come  except  the 
Irwines,  for  whom  the  carriage  had  been  sent 
early;  and  Ai'thur  was  at  that  moment  not  in 
a  back  room,  but  walking  with  the  Rector  into 
the  broad  stone  cloisters  of  the  old  abbey,  where 
the  long  tables  were  laid  for  all  the  cottage 
tenants  and  the  farm  servants.  A  very  hand- 
some young  Briton  he  looked  to-day,  in  high 
spirits  and  a  bright- blue  frock-coat,  the  highest 
mode,  —  his  arm  no  longer  in  a  sling.  So  open- 
looking  and  candid,  too ;  but  candid  people 
have  their  secrets,  and  secrets  leave  no  lines  in 
young  faces. 

"TJpon  my  word,"  he  said,  as  they  entered 


THE   BIRTHDAY  FEAST         375 

the  cool  cloisters,  "I  think  the  cottagers  have 
the  best  of  it;  these  cloisters  make  a  delightful 
dining-room  on  a  hot  day.  That  was  capital 
advice  of  yours,  Irwine,  about  the  dinners,  — 
to  let  them  be  as  orderly  and  comfortable  as 
possible,  and  only  for  the  tenants,  especially  as 
I  had  only  a  limited  sum  after  all;  for  though 
my  grandfather  talked  of  a  carte  blariche,  he 
could  n't  make  up  his  mind  to  trust  me,  when 
it  came  to  the  point." 

"Never  mind,  you'll  give  more  pleasure  in 
this  quiet  way,"  said  Mr.  Irwine.  "In  this  sort 
of  thing  people  are  constantly  confounding 
liberality  with  riot  and  disorder.  It  sounds  very 
grand  to  say  that  so  many  sheep  and  oxen  were 
roasted  whole,  and  everybody  ate  who  liked  to 
come ;  but  in  the  end  it  generally  happens  that 
no  one  has  had  an  enjoyable  meal.  If  the  peo- 
ple get  a  good  dinner  and  a  moderate  quantity 
of  ale  in  tlie  middle  of  the  day,  they'll  be  able 
to  enjoy  the  games  as  the  day  cools.  You  can't 
hinder  some  of  them  from  getting  too  much 
towards  evening;  but  drunkenness  and  dark- 
ness go  better  together  than  drunkenness  and 
daylight." 

"  Well,  I  hope  there  won't  be  much  of  it.  I  've 
kept  the  Treddleston  people  away,  by  having  a 
feast  for  them  in  the  town ;  and  I  've  got  Casson 
and  Adam  Bede,  and  some  other  good  fellows, 
to  look  to  the  giving  out  of  ale  in  the  booths,  and 
to  take  care  things  don't  go  too  far.  Come,  let 
us  go  up  above  now,  and  see  the  dinner- tables 
for  the  large  tenants." 

They  went  up  the  stone  staircase  leading 
simply  to  the  long  gallery  above  the  cloisters, 


S76  ADAM   BEDE 

a  gallery  where  all  the  dusty,  worthless  old  pic- 
tures had  been  banished  for  the  last  three  gen- 
erations, —  mouldy  portraits  of  Queen  Eliza- 
beth and  her  ladies,  General  Monk  with  his 
eye  knocked  out,  Daniel  very  much  in  the  dark 
among  the  lions,  and  Julius  Caesar  on  horse- 
back, with  a  high  nose  and  laurel  crown,  holding 
his  Commentaries  in  his  hand. 

*'What  a  capital  thing  it  is  that  they  saved 
this  piece  of  the  old  abbey ! "  said  Arthur.  "If 
I  'm  ever  master  here,  I  shall  do  up  the  gallery 
in  first-rate  style ;  we  've  got  no  room  in  the  house 
a  third  as  large  as  this.  That  second  table  is 
for  the  farmers'  wives  and  children :  Mrs.  Best 
said  it  would  be  more  comfortable  for  the 
mothers  and  children  to  be  by  themselves.  I 
was  determined  to  have  the  children,  and  make 
a  regular  family  thing  of  it.  I  shall  be  '  the  old 
squire'  to  those  little  lads  and  lasses  some  day, 
and  they  '11  tell  their  children  what  a  much  finer 
young  fellow  I  was  than  my  own  son.  There 's 
a  table  for  the  women  and  children  below  as 
well.  But  you  will  see  them  all,  —  you  will 
come  up  with  me  after  dinner,  I  hope  .^" 

"Yes,  to  be  sure,"  said  Mr.  Irwine.  "I 
would  n't  miss  your  maiden  speech  to  the 
tenantry." 

"And  there  will  be  something  else  you'll  like 
to  hear,"  said  Arthur.  "Let  us  go  into  the 
library  and  I'll  tell  you  all  about  it,  while  my 
grandfather  is  in  the  drawing-room  with  the 
ladies.  Something  that  will  surprise  you,"  he 
continued,  as  they  sat  down.  "My  grand- 
father has  come  round,  after  all." 

"What,  about  Adam?'* 


THE   BIRTHDAY  FEAST         377 

"Yes;  I  should  have  ridden  over  to  tell  you 
about  it,  only  I  was  so  busy.  You  know  I  told 
you  I  had  quite  given  up  arguing  the  matter 
with  him,  —  I  thought  it  was  hopeless ;  but 
yesterday  morning  he  asked  me  to  come  in  here 
to  him  before  I  went  out,  and  astonished  me  by 
saying  that  he  had  decided  on  all  the  new  ar- 
rangements he  should  make  in  consequence  of 
old  Satchell  being  obliged  to  lay  by  work,  and 
that  he  intended  to  employ  Adam  in  superin- 
tending the  woods  at  a  salary  of  a  guinea  a  week, 
and  the  use  of  a  pony  to  be  kept  here.  I  believe 
the  secret  of  it  is,  he  saw  from  the  first  it  w^ould 
be  a  profitable  plan,  but  he  had  some  particular 
dislike  of  Adam  to  get  over;  and  besides,  the 
fact  that  I  propose  a  thing  is  generally  a  reason 
with  him  for  rejecting  it.  There's  the  most 
curious  contradiction  in  my  grandfather:  I 
know  he  means  to  leave  me  all  the  money  he  has 
saved,  and  he  is  likely  enough  to  have  cut  off 
poor  Aunt  Lydia,  who  has  been  a  slave  to  him 
all  her  life,  with  only  five  hundred  a  year,  for 
the  sake  of  giving  me  all  the  more;  and  yet  I 
sometimes  think  he  positively  hates  me  because 
I'm  his  heir.  I  believe  if  I  were  to  break  my 
neck,  he  would  feel  it  the  greatest  misfortune 
that  could  befall  him,  and  yet  it  seems  a  pleas- 
ure to  him  to  make  my  life  a  series  of  petty 
annoyances." 

"Ah,  my  boy,  it  is  not  only  woman's  love 
that  is  avipcoro^  epw9,  as  old  .^schylus  calls  it. 
There 's  plenty  of  '  unloving  love '  in  the  world  of 
a  masculine  kind.  But  tell  me  about  Adam. 
Has  he  accepted  the  post  ?  I  don't  see  that  it 
can  be  much  more  profitable  than  his  present 


378  ADAM   BEDE 

work,  though,  to  be  sure,  it  will  leave  him  a  good 
deal  of  time  on  his  own  hands." 

"Well,  I  felt  some  doubt  about  it  when  I 
spoke  to  him,  and  he  seemed  to  hesitate  at  first. 
His  objection  was  that  he  thought  he  should  not 
be  able  to  satisfy  my  grandfather.  But  I  begged 
him  as  a  personal  favour  to  me  not  to  let  any 
reason  prevent  him  from  accepting  the  place, 
if  he  really  liked  the  employment,  and  would 
not  be  giving  up  anything  that  was  more  profit- 
able to  him.  And  he  assured  me  he  should  like 
it  of  all  things ;  it  would  be  a  great  step  forward 
for  him  in  business,  and  it  would  enable  him  to 
do  what  he  had  long  wished  to  do,  —  to  give  up 
working  for  Burge.  He  says  he  shall  have 
plenty  of  time  to  superintend  a  little  business 
of  his  own,  which  he  and  Seth  will  carry  on,  and 
will  perhaps  be  able  to  enlarge  by  degrees.  So 
he  has  agreed  at  last,  and  I  have  arranged  that 
he  shall  dine  with  the  large  tenants  to-day ;  and 
I  mean  to  announce  the  appointment  to  them, 
and  ask  them  to  drink  Adam's  health.  It's  a 
little  drama  I  've  got  up  in  honour  of  my  friend 
Adam.  He 's  a  fine  fellow,  and  I  like  the  oppor- 
tunity of  letting  people  know  that  I  think  so." 

"A  drama  in  which  friend  Arthur  piques  him- 
self on  having  a  pretty  part  to  play,"  said  Mr. 
Irwine,  smiling.  But  when  he  saw  Arthur 
colour,  he  went  on  relentingly:  "My  part,  you 
know,  is  always  that  of  the  old  Fogy  who  sees 
nothing  to  admire  in  the  young  folks.  I  don't 
like  to  admit  that  I  'm  proud  of  my  pupil  when 
he  does  graceful  things.  But  I  must  play  the 
amiable  old  gentleman  for  once,  and  second 
your  toast  in  honour  of  Adam.     Has  your  grand- 


THE   BIRTHDAY  FEAST         379 

father  yielded  on  the  other  point  too,  and  agreed 
to  have  a  respectable  man  as  steward?" 

"Oh,  no,"  said  Arthur,  rising  from  his  chair 
with  an  air  of  impatience,  and  walking  along 
the  room  with  his  hands  in  his  pockets.  "He's 
got  some  project  or  other  about  letting  the  Chase 
Farm,  and  bargaining  for  a  supply  of  milk  and 
butter  for  the  house.  But  I  ask  no  questions 
about  it,  —  it  makes  me  too  angry.  I  believe 
he  means  to  do  all  the  business  himself,  and 
have  nothing  in  the  shape  of  a  steward.  It's 
amazing  what  energy  he  has,  though." 

"Well,  we'll  go  to  the  ladies  now,"  said  Mr. 
Irwine,  rising  too.  "I  want  to  tell  my  mother 
what  a  splendid  throne  you  've  prepared  for  her 
under  the  marquee." 

"Yes,  and  we  must  be  going  to  luncheon  too," 
said  Arthur.  "It  must  be  two  o'clock,  for  there 
is  the  gong  beginning  to  sound  for  the  tenants' 
dinners." 


CHAPTER  II 

DINNER-TIME 


'HEN  Adam  heard  that  he  was  to  dine 
iipstah's  with  the  large  tenants,  he  felt 
rather  uncomfortable  at  the  idea  of 
being  exalted  in  this  way  above  his  mother  and 
Seth,  who  were  to  dine  in  the  cloisters  below. 
But  Mr.  Mills,  the  butler,  assured  him  that  Cap- 
tain Donnithorne  had  given  particular  orders 
about  it,  and  would  be  very  angry  if  Adam  was 
not  there. 

Adam  nodded,  and  went  up  to  Seth,  who  was 
standing  a  few  yards  off.  "Seth,  lad,"  he  said, 
*'the  Captain  has  sent  to  say  I'm  to  dine  up- 
stairs, —  he  wishes  it  particular,  Mr.  Mills  says, 
so  I  suppose  it  'ud  be  behaving  ill  for  me  not  to 
go.  But  I  don't  like  sitting  up  above  thee  and 
mother,  as  if  I  was  better  than  my  own  flesh  and 
blood.     Thee't  not  take  it  unkind,  I  hope.^" 

"Nay,  nay,  lad,"  said  Seth,  "thy  honour's 
our  honour;  and  if  thee  get'st  respect,  thee  'st 
won  it  by  thy  own  deserts.  The  further  I 
see  thee  above  me  the  better,  so  long  as  thee 
feel'st  like  a  brother  to  me.  It 's  because  o'  thy 
being  appointed  over  the  woods,  and  it 's  nothing 
but  what's  right.  That's  a  place  o'  trust,  and 
thee  't  above  a  common  workman  now." 

"Ay,"  said  Adam;  "but  nobody  knows  a 
w^ord  about  it  yet.  I  have  n't  given  notice  to 
Mr.  Burge  about  leaving  him,  and  I  don't  like 


DINNER-TIME  381 

for  to  tell  anybody  else  about  it  before  he  knows, 
for  he  '11  be  a  good  bit  hurt,  I  doubt.  People  'uU 
be  wondering  to  see  me  there,  and  they  11  like 
enough  be  guessing  the  reason,  and  asking  ques- 
tions, for  there 's  been  so  much  talk  up  and  down 
about  my  having  the  place,  this  last  three  weeks." 

"Well,  thee  canst  say  thee  wast  ordered  to 
come  without  being  told  the  reason.  That's 
the  truth.  And  mother  'ull  be  fine  and  joyful 
about  it.     Let's  go  and  tell  her." 

Adam  was  not  the  only  guest  invited  to  come 
upstairs  on  other  grounds  than  the  amount  he 
contributed  to  the  rent-roll.  There  were  other 
people  in  the  two  parishes  who  derived  dignity 
from  their  functions  rather  than  from  their 
pocket,  and  of  these  Bartle  Massey  was  one^ 
His  lame  walk  was  rather  slower  than  usual  on 
this  warm  day,  so  Adam  lingered  behind  when 
the  bell  rang  for  dinner,  that  he  might  walk  up 
with  his  old  friend;  for  he  was  a  little  too  shy 
to  join  the  Poyser  party  on  this  public  occasion. 
Opportunities  of  getting  to  Hetty's  side  would 
be  sure  to  turn  up  in  the  course  of  the  day,  and 
Adam  contented  himself  with  that,  for  he  dis- 
liked any  risk  of  being  "joked"  about  Hetty; 
the  big,  out- spoken,  fearless  man  was  very  shy 
and  diffident  as  to  his  love-making. 

"Well,  Mester  Massey,"  said  Adam,  as  Bartle 
came  up,  "I'm  going  to  dine  upstairs  with  you 
to-day;  the  Captain's  sent  me  orders." 

"Ah!"  said  Bartle,  pausing,  with  one  hand 
on  his  back.  "Then  there's  something  in  the 
wind,  —  there 's  something  in  the  wind.  Have 
you  heard  anything  about  what  the  old  Squire 
means  to  do  .'*" 


882  ADAM  BEDE 

"Why,  yes,"  said  Adam;  "I'll  tell  you  what 
I  know,  because  I  believe  you  can  keep  a  still 
tongue  in  your  head  if  you  like,  and  I  hope 
you  '11  not  let  drop  a  word  till  it 's  common  talk, 
for  I've  particular  reasons  against  its  being 
known." 

"Trust  to  me,  my  boy,  trust  to  me.  I 've  got 
no  wife  to  worm  it  out  of  me  and  then  run  out 
and  cackle  it  in  everybody's  hearing.  If  you 
trust  a  man,  let  him  be  a  bachelor,  —  let  him 
be  a  bachelor." 

"Well,  then,  it  was  so  far  settled  yesterday, 
that  I  'm  to  take  the  management  o'  the  woods. 
The  Captain  sent  for  me  t'  offer  it  me,  when  I 
was  seeing  to  the  poles  and  things  here,  and  I  've 
agreed  to  't.  But  if  anybody  asks  any  questions 
upstairs,  just  you  take  no  notice,  and  turn  the 
talk  to  something  else,  and  I  '11  be  obliged  to  you. 
Now  let  us  go  on,  for  we  're  pretty  nigh  the  last, 
I  think." 

"I  know  what  to  do,  never  fear,"  said  Bartle, 
moving  on.  "The  news  will  be  good  sauce  to 
my  dinner.  Ay,  ay,  my  boy,  you  '11  get  on.  I  '11 
back  you  for  an  eye  at  measuring,  and  a  head- 
piece for  figures,  against  any  man  in  this  county ; 
and  you  've  had  good  teaching,  —  you  've  had 
good  teaching." 

When  they  got  upstairs,  the  question  which 
Arthur  had  left  unsettled,  as  to  who  was  to  be 
president,  and  who  vice,  was  still  under  discus- 
sion, so  that  Adam's  entrance  passed  without 
remark. 

"It  stands  to  sense,"  Mr.  Casson  was  saying, 
"as  old  Mr.  Poyser,  as  is  th'  oldest  man  i'  the 
room,  should  sit  at  top  o'  the  table.     I  was  n't 


DINNER-TIME  388 

butler  fifteen  year  without  learning  the  rights 
and  the  wrongs  about  dinner." 

*'  Nay,  nay,"  said  old  Martin,  *'  I  'n  gi'en  up  tc 
my  son;  I'm  no  tenant  now:  let  my  son  take 
my  place.  Th'  ould  foulks  ha'  had  their  turn; 
they  mun  make  way  for  the  young  uns." 

*'I  should  ha'  thought  the  biggest  tenant  had 
the  best  right,  more  nor  th'  oldest,"  said  Luke 
Britton,  who  was  not  fond  of  the  critical  Mr. 
Poyser;  "there's  Mester  Holds  worth  has  more 
land  nor  anybody  else  on  th'  estate." 

"Well,"  said  Mr.  Poyser,  "suppose  we  say 
the  man  wi'  the  foulest  land  shall  sit  at  top; 
then  whoever  gets  th'  honour,  there'll  be  no 
envying  on  him." 

"Eh,  here's  Mester  Massey,"  said  Mr.  Craig, 
who,  being  a  neutral  in  the  dispute,  had  no  in- 
terest but  in  conciliation;  "the  schoolmaster 
ought  to  be  able  to  tell  you  what 's  right.  Who 's 
to  sit  at  top  o'  the  table,  Mr.  Massey  .^" 

"Why,  the  broadest  man,"  said  Bartle ;  " and 
then  he  won't  take  up  other  folks'  room;  and 
the  next  broadest  must  sit  at  bottom." 

This  happy  mode  of  settling  the  dispute  pro- 
duced much  laughter,  —  a  smaller  joke  would 
have  sufficed  for  that.  Mr.  Casson,  however, 
did  not  feel  it  compatible  with  his  dignity 
and  superior  knowledge  to  join  in  the  laugh, 
until  it  turned  out  that  he  was  fixed  on  as 
the  second  broadest  man.  Martin  Poyser  the 
younger,  as  the  broadest,  was  to  be  president, 
and  Mr.  Casson,  as  next  broadest,  was  to  be 
vice. 

Owing  to  this  arrangement,  Adam,  being  of 
course  at  the  bottom  of  the  table,  fell  under  the 


384  ADAM   BEDE 

immediate  observation  of  Mr.  Casson,  who,  too 
much  occupied  with  the  question  of  precedence, 
had  not  hitherto  noticed  his  entrance.  Mr.  Cas- 
son, we  have  seen,  considered  i\.dam  "rather 
Hfted  up  and  peppery  like ; "  he  thought  the 
gentry  made  more  fuss  about  this  young  car- 
penter than  was  necessary;  they  made  no  fuss 
about  Mr.  Casson,  although  he  had  been  an  ex- 
cellent butler  for  fifteen  years. 

"Well,  Mr.  Bede,  you're  one  o'  them  as 
mounts  hup'ards  apace,"  he  said,  when  Adam 
sat  down.  "You've  niver  dined  here  before, 
as  I  remember." 

"No,  Mr.  Casson,"  said  Adam,  in  his  strong 
voice,  that  could  be  heard  along  the  table ;  "I  've 
never  dined  here  before,  but  I  come  by  Captain 
Donnithorne's  wish,  and  I  hope  it's  not  dis- 
agreeable to  anybody  here." 

"Nay,  nay,"  said  several  voices  at  once, 
"we're  glad  ye 're  come.  Who's  got  anything 
to  say  again'  it.'^" 

"And  ye '11  sing  us  'Over  the  hills  and  far 
away,'  after  dinner,  wonna  ye.^"  said  Mr. 
Chowne.  "That's  a  song  I'm  uncommon 
fond  on." 

"Peeh!"  said  Mr.  Craig;  "it's  not  to  be 
named  by  side  o'  the  Scotch  tunes.  I  've  never 
cared  about  singing  myself;  I've  had  some- 
thing better  to  do.  A  man  that 's  got  the  names 
and  the  natur  o'  plants  in  's  head  isna  likely  to 
keep  a  hollow  place  t'  hold  tunes  in.  But  a 
second  cousin  o'  mine,  a  drovier,  was  a  rare 
hand  at  remembering  the  Scotch  tunes.  He'd 
got  nothing  else  to  think  on." 

"The  Scotch  tunes!"    said  Bartle  Massey, 


DINNER-TIME  385 

contemptuously;  "I've  heard  enough  o'  the 
Scotch  tunes  to  last  me  while  I  live.  They're 
fit  for  nothing  but  to  frighten  the  birds  with,  — 
that's  to  say,  the  English  birds,  for  the  Scotch 
birds  may  sing  Scotch  for  what  I  know.  Give 
the  lads  a  bagpipes  instead  of  a  rattle,  and  I'll 
answer  for  it  the  corn '11  be  safe." 

"Yes,  there's  folks  as  find  a  pleasure  in  un- 
dervallying  what  they  know  but  little  about," 
said  Mr.  Craig. 

"Why,  the  Scotch  tunes  are  just  like  a  scold- 
ing, nagging  woman,"  Bartle  went  on,  with- 
out deigning  to  notice  Mr.  Craig's  remark. 
"They  go  on  with  the  same  thing  over  and 
over  again,  and  never  come  to  a  reasonable 
end.  Anybody  'ud  think  the  Scotch  tunes  had 
always  been  asking  a  question  of  somebody  as 
deaf  as  old  Taft,  and  had  never  got  an  answer 

Adam  minded  the  less  about  sitting  by  Mr. 
Casson,  because  this  position  enabled  him  to 
see  Hetty,  who  was  not  far  off  him  at  the  next 
table.  Hetty,  however,  had  not  even  noticed 
his  presence  yet,  for  she  was  giving  angry  atten- 
tion to  Totty,  who  insisted  on  drawing  up  her 
feet  on  to  the  bench  in  antique  fashion,  and 
thereby  threatened  to  make  dusty  marks  on 
Hetty's  pink-and- white  frock.  No  sooner  were 
the  little  fat  legs  pushed  down  than  up  they  came 
again,  for  Totty's  eyes  were  too  busy  in  staring 
at  the  large  dishes  to  see  where  the  plum- pud- 
ding was,  for  her  to  retain  any  consciousness  of 
her  legs.  Hetty  got  quite  out  of  patience,  and 
at  last,  with  a  frown  and  pout,  and  gathering 
tears,  she  said,  — 
VOL  I.— 25 


386  ADAM  BEDE 

**  Oh,  dear,  aunt,  I  wish  you  'd  speak  to  Totty ; 
she  keeps  putting  her  legs  up  so,  and  messing  my 
frock." 

"What's  the  matter  wi'  the  child?  She  can 
niver  please  you,"  said  the  mother.  "Let  her 
come  by  the  side  o'  me,  then ;  I  can  put  up  wi' 
her." 

Adam  was  looking  at  Hetty,  and  saw  the 
frown  and  pout,  and  the  dark  eyes  seeming  to 
grow  larger  with  pettish,  half-gathered  tears. 
Quiet  Mary  Burge,  who  sat  near  enough  to  see 
that  Hetty  was  cross,  and  that  Adam's  eyes 
were  fixed  on  her,  thought  that  so  sensible  a 
man  as  Adam  must  be  reflecting  on  the  small 
value  of  beauty  in  a  woman  whose  temper  was 
bad.  Mary  was  a  good  girl,  not  given  to  in- 
dulge in  evil  feelings;  but  she  said  to  herself 
that  since  Hetty  had  a  bad  temper,  it  was  better 
Adam  should  know  it.  And  it  was  quite  true 
that  if  Hetty  had  been  plain  she  would  have 
looked  very  ugly  and  unamiable  at  that  moment, 
and  no  one's  moral  judgment  upon  her  would 
have  been  in  the  least  beguiled.  But  really 
there  was  something  quite  charming  in  her  pet- 
tishness,  —  it  looked  so  much  more  like  inno- 
cent distress  than  ill-humour;  and  the  severe 
Adam  felt  no  movement  of  disapprobation;  he 
only  felt  a  sort  of  amused  pity,  as  if  he  had  seen 
a  kitten  setting  up  its  back,  or  a  little  bird  with 
its  feathers  ruffled.  He  could  not  gather  what 
was  vexing  her,  but  it  was  impossible  to  him  to 
feel  otherwise  than  that  she  was  the  prettiest 
thing  in  the  world,  and  that  if  he  could  have  his 
way,  nothing  should  ever  vex  her  any  more. 
And  presently,  when  Totty  was  gone,  she  caught 


DINNER-TIME  387 

his  eye,  and  her  face  broke  into  one  of  its  bright- 
est smiles,  as  she  nodded  to  him.  It  was  a  bit 
of  flirtation,  —  she  knew  Mary  Burge  was  look- 
ing at  them;  but  the  smile  was  like  wine  to 
Adam. 


CHAPTER  III 

THE     H  E  A  LTH  -  DR  INK  I  N  G 


WHEN  the  dinner  was  over,  and  the  first 
draughts  from  the  great  cask  of  birth- 
day ale  were  brought  up,  room  was 
made  for  the  broad  Mr.  Poyser  at  the  side  of 
the  table,  and  two  chairs  were  placed  at  the 
head.  It  had  been  settled  very  definitely  what 
Mr.  Poyser  was  to  do  when  the  young  Squire 
should  appear ;  and  for  the  last  five  minutes  he 
had  been  in  a  state  of  abstraction,  with  his  eyes 
fixed  on  the  dark  picture  opposite,  and  his  hands 
busy  with  the  loose  cash  and  other  articles  in  his 
breeches-  pockets . 

When  the  young  Squire  entered,  with  Mr. 
Irwine  by  his  side,  every  one  stood  up ;  and  this 
moment  of  homage  was  verv  agreeable  to  Arthur. 
He  liked  to  feel  his  own  importance,  and  besides 
that,  he  cared  a  great  deal  for  the  good- will  of 
these  people ;  he  was  fond  of  thinking  that  they 
had  a  hearty,  special  regard  for  him.  The 
pleasure  he  felt  was  in  his  face  as  he  said,  — 

*'My  grandfather  and  I  hope  all  our  friends 
here  have  enjoyed  their  dinner,  and  find  my 
birthday  ale  good.  Mr.  Irwine  and  I  are  come 
to  taste  it  with  you,  and  I  am  sure  we  shall  all 
like  anvthinfi^  the  better  that  the  Rector  shares 
with  us. 

All  eyes  were  now  turned  on  Mr.  Poyser,  who, 
with  his  hands  still  busy  in  his  pockets,  began 


THE  HEALTH-DRINKING        389 

with  the  deliberateness  of  a  slow  striking  clock : 
"Captain,  my  neighbours  have  put  it  upo'  me 
to  speak  for  'em  to-day;  for  where  folks  think 
pretty  much  alike,  one  spokesman 's  as  good  as 
a  score.  And  though  we've  may-happen  got 
contrairy  ways  o'  thinking  about  a  many  things, 
—  one  man  lays  down  his  land  one  way,  an'  an- 
other another,  an'  I'll  not  take  it  upon  me  to 
speak  to  no  man's  farming  but  my  own,  —  this 
I'll  say,  as  we're  all  o'  one  mind  about  our 
young  Squire.  We've  pretty  nigh  all  on  us 
known  you  when  you  war  a  little  un,  an'  we  've 
niver  known  anything  on  you  but  what  was  good 
an'  honourable.  You  speak  fair  an'  y'  act  fair, 
an'  we're  joyful  when  we  look  forrard  to  your 
being  our  landlord ;  for  we  b'lieve  you  mean  to 
do  right  by  everybody,  an'  'uU  make  no  man's 
bread  bitter  to  him  if  you  can  help  it.  That's 
what  I  mean,  an'  that 's  what  we  all  mean ;  and 
when  a  man's  said  what  he  means,  he'd  better 
stop,  for  th'  ale  'uU  be  none  the  better  for  stan- 
nin'.  An'  I'll  not  say  how  we  like  th'  ale  yet, 
for  we  couldna  well  taste  it  till  we'd  drunk  your 
health  in  it;  but  the  dinner  was  good,  an'  if 
there 's  anybody  hasna  enjoyed  it,  it  must  be  the 
fault  of  his  own  inside.  An'  as  for  the  Rector's 
company,  it's  well  known  as  that's  welcome  t' 
all  the  parish  wherever  he  may  be ;  an'  I  hope, 
an'  we  all  hope,  as  he'll  live  to  see  us  old  folks, 
an'  our  children  grown  to  men  an'  women,  an' 
your  honour  a  family  man.  I  've  no  more  to  say 
as  concerns  the  present  time,  an'  so  we  '11  drink 
our  young  Squire's  health,  —  three  times  three." 
Hereupon  a  glorious  shouting,  a  rapping, 
a  jingling,  a  clattering,  and  a  shouting,  with 


390  ADAM  BEDE 

plentiful  da  capo,  pleasanter  than  a  strain  of 
sublimest  music  in  the  ears  that  receive  such  a 
tribute  for  the  first  time.  Arthur  had  felt  a 
twinge  of  conscience  during  Mr.  Poyser's  speech, 
but  it  was  too  feeble  to  nullify  the  pleasure  he 
felt  in  being  praised.  Did  he  not  deserve  what 
was  said  of  him,  on  the  whole  ?  If  there  was 
something  in  his  conduct  that  Poyser  would  n't 
have  liked  if  he  had  known  it,  why,  no  man's 
conduct  will  bear  too  close  an  inspection;  and 
Poyser  was  not  likely  to  know  it ;  and,  after  all, 
what  had  he  done  ?  Gone  a  little  too  far,  per- 
haps, in  flirtation,  but  another  man  in  his  place 
would  have  acted  much  worse;  and  no  harm 
would  come,  —  no  harm  should  come,  for  the 
next  time  he  was  alone  with  Hetty,  he  would 
explain  to  her  that  she  must  not  think  seriously 
of  him  or  of  what  had  passed.  It  was  neces- 
sary to  Arthur,  you  perceive,  to  be  satisfied  with 
himself:  uncomfortable  thoughts  must  be  got 
rid  of  by  good  intentions  for  the  future,  which 
can  be  formed  so  rapidly  that  he  had  time  to  be 
uncomfortable  and  to  become  easy  again  before 
Mr.  Poyser's  slow  speech  was  finished ;  and 
when  it  was  time  for  him  to  speak  he  w^as  quite 
light-hearted. 

"I  thank  you  all,  my  good  friends  and  neigh- 
bours," x\rthur  said,  "for  the  good  opinion  of 
me,  and  the  kind  feelings  towards  me  which  Mr. 
Poyser  has  been  expressing  on  your  behalf  and 
on  his  own,  and  it  will  always  be  my  heartiest 
wish  to  deserve  them.  In  the  course  of  things 
we  may  expect  that,  if  I  live,  I  shall  one  day  or 
other  be  your  landlord;  indeed  it  is  on  the 
ground  of  that  expectation  that  my  grandfather 


THE   HEALTH-DRINKING        391 

has  wished  me  to  celebrate  this  day  and  to  come 
among  you  now;  and  I  look  forward  to  this 
position,  not  merely  as  one  of  power  and  pleas- 
ure for  myself,  but  as  a  means  of  benefiting  my 
neighbours.  It  hardly  becomes  so  young  a  man 
as  I  am,  to  talk  much  about  farming  to  you, 
who  are  most  of  you  so  much  older,  and  are 
men  of  experience;  still,  I  have  interested  my- 
self a  good  deal  in  such  matters,  and  learned  as 
much  about  them  as  my  opportunities  have 
allowed;  and  when  the  course  of  events  shall 
place  the  estate  in  my  hands,  it  will  be  my  first 
desire  to  afford  my  tenants  all  the  encourage- 
ment a  landlord  can  give  them,  in  improving 
their  land,  and  trying  to  bring  about  a  better 
practice  of  husbandry.  It  will  be  my  wish  to 
be  looked  on  by  all  my  deserving  tenants  as 
their  best  friend  ;  and  nothing  would  make  me 
so  happy  as  to  be  able  to  respect  every  man  on 
the  estate,  and  to  be  respected  by  him  in  re- 
turn. It  is  not  my  place  at  present  to  enter  into 
particulars;  I  only  meet  your  good  hopes  con- 
cerning me  by  telling  you  that  my  own  hopes 
correspond  to  them, —  that  what  you  expect  from 
me  I  desire  to  fulfil;  and  I  am  quite  of  Mr. 
Poyser's  opinion,  that  when  a  man  has  said 
what  he  means,  he  had  better  stop.  But  the 
pleasure  I  feel  in  having  my  own  health  drunk 
by  you  would  not  be  perfect  if  we  did  not  drink 
the  health  of  my  grandfather,  who  has  filled  the 
place  of  both  parents  to  me.  I  will  say  no  more, 
until  you  have  joined  me  in  drinking  his  health 
on  a  day  when  he  has  wished  me  to  appear 
among  you  as  the  future  representative  of  his 
name  and  family." 


392  ADAM  BEDE 

Perhaps  there  was  no  one  present  except  Mr. 
Irwine  who  thoroughly  understood  and  ap- 
proved Arthur's  graceful  mode  of  proposing  his 
grandfather's  health.  The  farmers  thought 
the  young  Squire  knew  well  enough  that  they 
hated  the  old  Squire,  and  Mrs.  Poyser  said, 
"He'd  better  not  ha'  stirred  a  kettle  o'  sour 
broth."  The  bucolic  mind  does  not  readily 
apprehend  the  refinements  of  good  taste.  But 
the  toast  could  not  be  rejected ;  and  when  it 
had  been  drunk,  Arthur  said,  — 

"I  thank  you,  both  for  my  grandfather  and 
myself ;  and  now  there  is  one  more  thing  I  wish 
to  tell  you,  that  you  may  share  my  pleasure 
about  it,  as  I  hope  and  believe  you  will.  I 
think  there  can  be  no  man  here  who  has  not  a 
respect,  and  some  of  you,  1  am  sure,  have  a  very 
high  reg-ard,  for  mv  friend  Adam  Bede.  It  is 
well  known  to  every  one  in  this  neighbourhood 
that  there  is  no  man  w^hose  word  can  be  more 
depended  on  than  his ;  that  whatever  he  under- 
takes to  do,  he  does  well,  and  is  as  careful  for 
the  interests  of  those  wdio  employ  him  as  for  his 
own.  I'm  proud  to  say  that  I  was  very  fond 
of  Adam  when  I  w^as  a  little  boy,  and  I  have 
never  lost  my  old  feeling  for  him,  —  I  think  that 
shows  that  I  know  a  good  fellow  when  I  find 
him.  It  has  long  been  my  wish  that  he  should 
have  the  management  of  the  woods  on  the  estate, 
wdiich  happen  to  be  very  valuable ;  not  only  be- 
cause I  think  so  highly  of  his  character,  but  be- 
cause he  has  the  knowledge  and  the  skill  which 
fit  him  for  the  place.  And  I  am  happy  to  tell 
you  that  it  is  my  grandfather's  wish  too,  and  it 
is  now   settled   that  Adam   shall   manage   the 


THE   HEALTH-DKINKING        393 

woods,  —  a  change  which  I  am  sure  will  be  very 
much  for  the  advantage  of  the  estate;  and  I 
hope  you  will  by  and  by  join  me  in  drinking  his 
health,  and  in  wishing  him  all  the  prosperity  in 
life  that  he  deserves.  But  there  is  a  still  older 
friend  of  mine  than  Adam  Bede  present,  and  I 
need  not  tell  you  that  it  is  Mr.  Irwine.  I'm 
sure  you  will  agree  with  me  that  we  must  drink 
no  other  person's  health  until  we  have  drunk 
his.  I  know  you  have  all  reason  to  love  him; 
but  no  one  of  his  parishioners  has  so  much  rea- 
son as  I.  Come,  charge  your  glasses,  and  let 
us  drink  to  our  excellent  Rector,  —  three  times 
three!" 

This  toast  was  drunk  with  all  the  enthusiasm 
that  was  wanting  to  the  last,  and  it  certainly  was 
the  most  picturesque  moment  in  the  scene  when 
Mr.  Irwine  got  up  to  speak,  and  all  the  faces  in 
the  room  were  turned  towards  him.  The  su- 
perior refinement  of  his  face  was  much  more 
striking  than  that  of  Arthur's  when  seen  in  com- 
parison with  the  people  round  them.  Arthur's 
was  a  much  commoner  British  face,  and  the 
splendour  of  his  new-fashioned  clothes  was 
more  akin  to  the  young  farmer's  taste  in  cos- 
tume than  Mr.  Irwine's  powder,  and  the  well- 
brushed  but  well-worn  black,  which  seemed  to 
be  his  chosen  suit  for  great  occasions ;  for  he 
had  the  mysterious  secret  of  never  wearing  a 
new-looking  coat. 

"This  is  not  the  first  time,  by  a  great  many," 
he  said,  "that  I  have  had  to  thank  my  parish- 
ioners for  giving  me  tokens  of  their  good- will; 
but  neighbourly  kindness  is  among  those  things 
that  are  the  more  precious  the  older  they  get. 


394  ADAM   BEDE 

Indeed,  our  pleasant  meeting  to-day  is  a  proof 
that  when  what  is  good  comes  of  age  and  is 
likely  to  live,  there  is  reason  for  rejoicing ;  and 
the  relation  between  us  as  clergyman  and  parish- 
ioners came  of  age  two  years  ago,  for  it  is  three- 
and- twenty  years  since  I  first  came  among  you, 
and  I  see  some  tall  fine-looking  young  men  here, 
as  well  as  some  blooming  young  women,  that 
were  far  from  looking  as  pleasantly  at  me  when 
I  christened  them  as  I  am  happy  to  see  them 
looking  now.  But  I  'm  sure  you  wall  not  wonder 
when  I  say  that  among  all  those  young  men,  the 
one  in  whom  I  have  the  strongest  interest  is  my 
friend  Mr.  Arthur  Donnithorne,  for  whom  you 
have  just  expressed  your  regard.  I  had  the 
pleasure  of  being  his  tutor  for  several  years,  and 
have  naturally  had  opportunities  of  knowing  him 
intimately  which  cannot  have  occurred  to  any 
one  else  who  is  present ;  and  I  have  some  pride 
as  well  as  pleasure  in  assuring  you  that  I  share 
your  high  hopes  concerning  him,  and  your  con- 
fidence in  his  possession  of  those  qualities  which 
will  make  him  an  excellent  landlord  when  the 
time  shall  come  for  him  to  take  that  important 
position  among  you.  We  feel  alike  on  most 
matters  on  which  a  man  who  is  getting  towards 
fifty  can  feel  in  common  with  a  young  man  of 
one- and- twenty,  and  he  has  just  been  express- 
ing a  feeling  which  I  share  very  heartily,  and  I 
would  not  willingly  omit  the  opportunity  of  say- 
ing so.  That  feeling  is  his  value  and  respect 
for  Adam  Bede.  People  in  a  high  station  are 
of  course  more  thought  of  and  talked  about,  and 
have  their  virtues  more  praised,  than  those 
whose   lives   are  passed  in   humble   every- day 


THE   HEALTH-DRINKING        395 

work ;  but  every  sensible  man  knows  how  neces- 
sary that  humble  every- day  work  is,  and  how 
important  it  is  to  us  that  it  should  be  done  well. 
And  I  agree  with  my  friend  Mr.  Arthur  Don- 
nithorne  in  feeling  that  w  hen  a  man  whose  duty 
lies  in  that  sort  of  work  shows  a  character  which 
would  make  him  an  example  in  any  station,  his 
merit  should  be  acknowledged.  He  is  one  of 
those  to  whom  honour  is  due,  and  his  friends 
should  delight  to  honour  him.  I  know  Adam 
Bede  well,  —  I  know  w^hat  he  is  as  a  w^orkman, 
and  what  he  has  been  as  a  son  and  brother,  — 
and  I  am  saying  the  simplest  truth  when  I  say 
that  I  respect  him  as  much  as  I  respect  any  man 
living.  But  I  am  not  speaking  to  you  about  a 
stranger ;  some  of  you  are  his  intimate  friends, 
and  I  believe  there  is  not  one  here  who  does 
not  know^  enough  of  him  to  join  heartily  in 
drinking  his  health." 

As  Mr.  Irwine  paused,  Arthur  jumped  up, 
and  filling  his  glass,  said,  *'A  bumper  to  Adam 
Bede,  and  may  he  live  to  have  sons  as  faithful 
and  clever  as  himself!" 

No  hearer,  not  even  Bartle  Massey,  was  so 
delighted  with  this  toast  as  Mr.  Poyser.  "Tough 
work"  as  his  first  speech  had  been,  he  would 
have  started  up  to  make  another  if  he  had  not 
known  the  extreme  irregularity  of  such  a  course. 
As  it  was,  he  found  an  outlet  for  his  feeling  in 
drinking  his  ale  unusually  fast,  and  setting  down 
his  glass  with  a  swing  of  his  arm  and  a  deter- 
mined rap.  If  Jonathan  Burge  and  a  few  others 
felt  less  comfortable  on  the  occasion,  they  tried 
their  best  to  look  contented,  and  so  the  toast  was 
drunk  with  a  good- will  apparently  unanimous. 


396  ADAM  BEDE 

Adam  was  rather  paler  than  usual  when  he 
got  up  to  thank  his  friends.  He  was  a  good  deal 
moved  by  this  public  tribute,  —  very  naturally, 
for  he  was  in  the  presence  of  all  his  little  world, 
and  it  was  uniting  to  do  him  honour.  But 
he  felt  no  shyness  about  speaking,  not  being 
troubled  with  small  vanity  or  lack  of  words ;  he 
looked  neither  awkward  nor  embarrassed,  but 
stood  in  his  usual  firm  upright  attitude,  with  his 
head  thrown  a  little  backward  and  his  hands 
perfectly  still,  in  that  rough  dignity  which  is 
peculiar  to  intelligent,  honest,  well-built  work- 
men, who  are  never  wondering  what  is  their 
business  in  the  world. 

"I'm  quite  taken  by  surprise,"  he  said.  "I 
didn't  expect  anything  o'  this  sort,  for  it's  a 
good  deal  more  than  my  wages.  But  I  've  the 
more  reason  to  be  grateful  to  you.  Captain,  and 
to  you,  Mr.  Irwine,  and  to  all  my  friends  here, 
who've  drunk  my  health  and  wished  me  well. 
It  'ud  be  nonsense  for  me  to  be  saying  I  don't 
at  all  deserve  th'  opinion  you  have  of  me ;  that 
'ud  be  poor  thanks  to  you,  to  say  that  you've 
known  me  all  these  years,  and  yet  have  n't  sense 
enough  to  find  out  a  great  deal  o'  the  truth  about 
me.  You  think,  if  I  undertake  to  do  a  bit  o' 
work,  I'll  do  it  well,  he  my  pay  big  or  little,  — 
and  that's  true.  I'd  be  ashamed  to  stand  be- 
fore vou  here  if  it  wasna  true.  But  it  seems  to 
me  that 's  a  man's  plain  duty,  and  nothing  to  be 
conceited  about,  and  it's  pretty  clear  to  me  as 
I  've  never  done  more  than  my  duty ;  for  let  us 
do  what  we  will,  it's  only  making  use  o'  the 
sperrit  and  the  powers  that  ha'  been  given  to  us. 
And  so  this  kindness  o'  yours,  I'm  sure,  is  no 


THE  HEALTH-DRINKING        397 

debt  you  owe  me,  but  a  free  gift ;  and  as  such  I 
accept  it  and  am  thankful.  And  as  to  this  new 
employment  I've  taken  in  hand,  I'll  only  say 
that  I  took  it  at  Captain  Donnithorne's  desire, 
and  that  I'll  try  to  fulfil  his  expectations.  I'd 
wish  for  no  better  lot  than  to  work  under  him, 
and  to  know  that  while  I  was  getting  my  own 
bread  I  was  taking  care  of  his  int'rests.  For  I 
believe  he's  one  o'  those  gentlemen  as  wishes  to 
do  the  right  thing,  and  to  leave  the  world  a  bit 
better  than  he  found  it;  which  it's  my  belief 
every  man  may  do,  whether  he 's  gentle  or  simple, 
whether  he  sets  a  good  bit  o'  work  going  and 
finds  the  money,  or  whether  he  does  the  work 
with  his  own  hands.  There's  no  occasion  for 
me  to  say  any  more  about  what  I  feel  towards 
him:  I  hope  to  show  it  through  the  rest  o'  my 
life  in  my  actions." 

There  were  various  opinions  about  Adam's 
speech:  some  of  the  women  whispered  that  he 
did  n't  show  himself  thankful  enough,  and 
seemed  to  speak  as  proud  as  could  be ;  but  most 
of  the  men  were  of  opinion  that  nobody  could 
speak  more  straightfor'ard,  and  that  Adam  was 
as  fine  a  chap  as  need  to  be.  While  such  ob- 
servations were  being  buzzed  about,  mingled 
with  wonderings  as  to  what  the  old  Squire  meant 
to  do  for  a  bailiff,  and  whether  he  was  going  to 
have  a  steward,  the  two  gentlemen  had  risen, 
and  were  walking  round  to  the  table  where  the 
wives  and  children  sat.  There  was  none  of  the 
strong  ale  here,  of  course,  but  wine  and  dessert, 
—  sparkling  gooseberry  for  the  young  ones,  and 
some  good  sherry  for  the  mothers.  Mrs.  Poy- 
ser  was  at  the  head  of  this  table,  and  Totty  was 


398  ADAM   BEDE 

now  seated  in  her  lap,  bending  her  small  nose 
deep  down  into  a  wine-glass  in  search  of  the  nuts 
floating  there. 

"How  do  you  do,  Mrs.  Poyser  ?""  said  Arthur. 
"Weren't  you  pleased  to  hear  your  husband 
make  such  a  good  speech  to-day.^" 

"Oh,  sir,  the  men  are  mostly  so  tongue-tied, 
—  you  're  forced  partly  to  guess  what  they  mean, 
as  you  do  wi'  the  dumb  creaturs." 

"What!  you  think  you  could  have  made  it 
better  for  him  ?  "  said  Mr.  Irwine,  laughing. 

"Well,  sir,  when  I  want  to  say  anything,  I  can 
mostly  find  words  to  say  it  in,  thank  God.  Not 
as  I'm  a-finding  fau't  wi'  my  husband;  for  if 
he's  a  man  o'  few  words,  what  he  says  he'll 
stand  to." 

"I'm  sure  I  never  saw  a  prettier  party  than 
this,"  Arthur  said,  looking  round  at  the  apple- 
cheeked  children,  "My  aunt  and  the  Miss 
Irwines  will  come  up  and  see  you  presently. 
They  were  afraid  of  the  noise  of  the  toasts,  but 
it  would  be  a  shame  for  them  not  to  see  you  at 
table." 

He  walked  on,  speaking  to  the  mothers  and 
patting  the  children,  while  Mr.  Irwine  satisfied 
himself  with  standing  still,  and  nodding  at  a  dis- 
tance, that  no  one's  attention  might  be  disturbed 
from  the  young  Squire,  the  hero  of  the  day. 
Arthur  did  not  venture  to  stop  near  Hetty,  but 
merely  bowed  to  her  as  he  passed  along  the  op- 
posite side.  The  foolish  child  felt  her  heart 
swelling  with  discontent;  for  what  woman  was 
ever  satisfied  with  apparent  neglect,  even  when 
she  knows  it  to  be  the  mask  of  love.^  Hetty 
thought  this  was  going  to  be  the  most  miserable 


THE   HEALTH-DRINKING       399 

day  she  had  had  for  a  long  while ;  a  moment  of 
chill  daylight  and  reality  came  across  her  dream. 
Arthur,  who  had  seemed  so  near  to  her  only  a 
few  hours  before,  was  separated  from  her,  as  the 
hero  of  a  great  procession  is  separated  from 
a  small  outsider  in  the  crowd. 


CHAPTER  IV 

THE     GAMES 


THE  great  dance  was  not  to  begin  until 
eight  o'clock ;  but  for  any  lads  and  lasses 
who  liked  to  dance  on  the  shady  grass  be- 
fore then,  there  was  music  always  at  hand ;  for 
was  not  the  band  of  the  Benefit  Club  capable  of 
playing  excellent  jigs,  reels,  and  hornpipes  ? 
And,  besides  this,  there  was  a  grand  band  hired 
from  Rosseter,  who,  with  their  wonderful  wind- 
instruments  and  puffed- out  cheeks,  were  them- 
selves a  delightful  show  to  the  small  boys  and 
girls;  to  say  nothing  of  Joshua  Rann's  fiddle, 
which  by  an  act  of  generous  forethought  he  had 
provided  himself  with,  in  case  any  one  should 
be  of  sufficiently  pure  taste  to  prefer  dancing  to 
a  solo  on  that  instrument. 

Meantime,  when  the  sun  had  moved  off  the 
great  open  space  in  front  of  the  house,  the  games 
began.  There  were  of  course  well-soaped  poles 
to  be  climbed  by  the  boys  and  youths,  races  to 
be  run  by  the  old  women,  races  to  be  run  in 
sacks,  heavy  weights  to  be  lifted  by  the  strong 
men,  and  a  long  list  of  challenges  to  such  ambi- 
tious attempts  as  that  of  walking  as  many  yards 
as  possible  on  one  leg,  —  feats  in  which  it  was 
generally  remarked  that  Wiry  Ben,  being  *'the 
lissom'st,  springest  fellow  i'  the  country,"  was 
sure  to  be  pre-eminent.  To  crown  all,  there 
was  to  be  a  donkey-race,  —  that  sublimest  of  all 


THE   GAMES  401 

races,  conducted  on  the  grand  socialistic  idea  of 
everybody  encouraging  everybody  else's  donkey, 
and  the  sorriest  donkey  winning. 

And  soon  after  four  o'clock  splendid  old  Mrs. 
Irwine,  in  her  damask  satin  and  jewels  and 
black  lace,  was  led  out  by  Arthur,  followed  by  the 
whole  family  party,  to  her  raised  seat  under 
the  striped  marquee,  where  she  was  to  give  out 
the  prizes  to  the  victors.  Staid,  formal  Miss 
Lydia  had  requested  to  resign  that  queenly  office 
to  the  royal  old  lady,  and  Arthur  was  pleased 
with  this  opportunity  of  gratifying  his  god- 
mother's taste  for  stateliness.  Old  Mr.  Donni- 
thorne,  the  delicately  clean,  finely  scented, 
withered  old  man,  led  out  Miss  Irwine,  with  his 
air  of  punctilious,  acid  politeness ;  Mr.  Gawaine 
brought  Miss  Lydia,  looking  neutral  and  stiff 
in  an  elegant  peach-blossom  silk;  and  Mr.  Ir- 
wine came  last  with  his  pale  sister  Anne.  No 
other  friend  of  the  family,  besides  Mr.  Gawaine, 
was  invited  to-day;  there  was  to  be  a  grand 
dinner  for  the  neighbouring  gentry  on  the  mor- 
row, but  to-day  all  the  forces  were  required  for 
the  entertainment  of  the  tenants. 

There  was  a  sunk  fence  in  front  of  the  marquee 
dividing  the  lawn  from  the  park;  but  a  tem- 
porary bridge  had  been  made  for  the  passage  of 
the  victors,  and  the  groups  of  people  standing, 
or  seated  here  and  there  on  benches,  stretched 
on  each  side  of  the  open  space  from  the  white 
marquees  up  to  the  sunk  fence. 

"Upon  my  word,  it's  a  pretty  sight,"  said  the 
old  lady,  in  her  deep  voice,  when  she  was  seated, 
and  looked  round  on  the  bright  scene  with  its 
dark-green  background;  "and  it's  the  last  fete- 

voL.  1  —  26 


402  ADAM   BEDE 

day  I  'm  likely  to  see,  unless  you  make  haste  and 
get  married,  Arthur.  But  take  care  you  get  a 
charming  bride,  else  I  would  rather  die  without 
seeing  her." 

"You're  so  terribly  fastidious,  godmother," 
said  Arthur,  "I'm  afraid  I  should  never  satisfy 
you  with  my  choice." 

"Well,  I  won't  forgive  you  if  she's  not  hand- 
some. I  can't  be  put  off  with  amiability,  which 
is  always  the  excuse  people  are  making  for  the 
existence  of  plain  people.  And  she  must  not 
be  silly ;  that  will  never  do,  because  you  '11  want 
managing,  and  a  silly  woman  can't  manage  you. 
Who  is  that  tall  young  man,  Dauphin,  with  the 
mild  face.^  There,  standing  without  his  hat, 
and  taking  such  care  of  that  tall  old  woman  by 
the  side  of  him,  —  his  mother  of  course.  I  like 
to  see  that." 

"What,  don't  you  know  him,  mother.^"  said 
Mr.  Irwine.  "That  is  Seth  Bede,  Adam's 
brother,  —  a  Methodist,  but  a  very  good  fellow. 
Poor  Seth  has  looked  rather  down-hearted  of 
late.  I  thought  it  was  because  of  his  father's 
dying  in  that  sad  way;  but  Joshua  Rann  tells 
me  he  wanted  to  marry  that  sweet  little  Metho- 
dist preacher  who  was  here  about  a  month  ago, 
and  I  suppose  she  refused  him." 

"Ah,  I  remember  hearing  about  her;  but 
there  are  no  end  of  people  here  that  I  don't 
know,  for  they  're  grown  up  and  altered  so  since 
I  used  to  go  about." 

"What  excellent  sight  you  have!"  said  old 
Mr.  Donnithorne,  who  was  holding  a  double 
glass  up  to  his  eyes,  "to  see  the  expression  of 
that  young  man's  face  so  far  off.     His  face  is 


THE   GAMES  403 

nothing  but  a  pale,  blurred  spot  to  me.  But  I 
fancy  I  have  the  advantage  of  you  when  we  come 
to  look  close.  I  can  read  small  print  without 
spectacles." 

"Ah,  my  dear  sir,  you  began  with  being  very 
near-sighted,  and  those  near-sighted  eyes  always 
wear  the  best.  I  want  very  strong  spectacles 
to  read  with,  but  then  I  think  my  eyes  get  better 
and  better  for  things  at  a  distance.  I  suppose 
if  I  could  live  another  fifty  years,  I  should  be 
blind  to  everything  that  was  n't  out  of  other 
people's  sight,  like  a  man  w^ho  stands  in  a  well, 
and  sees  nothing  but  the  stars." 

"See,"  said  Arthur,  "the  old  women  are  ready 
to  set  out  on  their  race  now.  Which  do  you  bet 
on,  Gawaine.^" 

"The  long-legged  one,  unless  they're  going 
to  have  several  heats,  and  then  the  little  wiry  one 
may  win." 

"There  are  the  Poysers,  mother,  not  far  off  on 
the  right  hand,"  said  Miss  Irwine.  "Mrs.  Poy- 
ser  is  looking  at  you.     Do  take  notice  of  her." 

"To  be  sure  I  will,"  said  the  old  lady,  giving 
a  gracious  bow  to  Mrs.  Poyser.  "A  w^oman 
who  sends  me  such  excellent  cream- cheese  is  not 
to  be  neglected.  Bless  me!  what  a  fat  child  that 
is  she  is  holding  on  her  knee !  But  who  is  that 
pretty  girl  with  dark  eyes  ,^  " 

"That  is  Hetty  Sorrel,"  said  Miss  Lydia 
Donnithorne,  "Martin  Poyser's  niece,  —  a  very 
likely  young  person,  and  well-looking  too.  My 
maid  has  taught  her  fine  needlework,  and  she 
has  mended  some  lace  of  mine  very  respectably 
indeed,  —  very  respectably." 

"Why,  she  has  lived  with  the  Poysers  six  or 


404  ADAM  BEDE 

seven  years,  mother ;  you  must  have  seen  her," 
said  Miss  Irwine. 

"No,  I've  never  seen  her,  child;  at  least  not 
as  she  is  now,"  said  Mrs.  Irwine,  continuing  to 
look  at  Hetty.  " Well- looking,  indeed!  She's 
a  perfect  beauty!  I've  never  seen  anything  so 
pretty  since  my  young  days.  AVhat  a  pity  such 
beauty  as  that  should  be  thrown  away  among 
the  farmers,  when  it 's  wanted  so  terribly  among 
the  good  families  w^ithout  fortune !  I  dare  say, 
now,  she'll  marry  a  man  who  would  have 
thought  her  just  as  pretty  if  she  had  had  round 
eyes  and  red  hair." 

Arthur  dared  not  turn  his  eyes  towards  Hetty 
while  Mrs.  Irwine  was  speaking  of  her.  He 
feigned  not  to  hear,  and  to  be  occupied  with 
something  on  the  opposite  side.  But  he  saw 
her  plainly  enough  without  looking ;  saw  her  in 
heightened  beauty,  because  he  heard  her  beauty 
praised,  —  for  other  men's  opinion,  you  know, 
was  like  a  native  climate  to  Arthur's  feelings; 
it  was  the  air  on  which  they  thrived  the  best,  and 
grew  strong.  Yes !  she  was  enough  to  turn  any 
man's  head,  —  any  man  in  his  place  would  have 
done  and  felt  the  same ;  and  to  give  her  up  after 
all,  as  he  was  determined  to  do,  would  be  an 
act  that  he  should  always  look  back  upon  with 
pride. 

"No,  mother,"  said  Mr.  Irwine,  replying  to 
her  last  words;  "I  can't  agree  with  yoU  there. 
The  common  people  are  not  quite  so  stupid  as 
you  imagine.  The  commonest  man,  who  has 
his  ounce  of  sense  and  feeling,  is  conscious  of  the 
difference  between  a  lovely,  delicate  woman,  and 
a  coarse  one.     Even  a  dog  feels  a  difference  in 


THE    GAMES  405 

their  presence.  The  man  may  be  no  better  able 
than  the  dog  to  explain  the  influence  the  more 
refined  beauty  has  on  him,  but  he  feels  it." 

"Bless  me,  Dauphin,  what  does  an  old  bache- 
lor like  you  know  about  it  .5^" 

"Oh,  that  is  one  of  the  matters  in  which  old 
bachelors  are  wiser  than  married  men,  because 
they  have  time  for  more  general  contemplation. 
Your  fine  critic  of  women  must  never  shackle  his 
judgment  by  calling  one  woman  his  own.  But, 
as  an  example  of  what  I  was  saying,  that  pretty 
Methodist  preacher  I  mentioned  just  now,  told 
me  that  she  had  preached  to  the  roughest  miners, 
and  had  never  been  treated  with  anything  but 
the  utmost  respect  and  kindness  by  them.  The 
reason  is  —  though  she  does  n't  know^  it  —  that 
there's  so  much  tenderness,  refinement,  and 
purity  about  her.  Such  a  woman  as  that  brings 
with  her  'airs  from  heaven'  that  the  coarsest 
fellow  is  not  insensible  to." 

"Here's  a  delicate  bit  of  womanhood  or 
girlhood,  coming  to  receive  a  prize,  I  suppose," 
said  Mr.  Gawaine.  "She  must  be  one  of  the 
racers  in  the  sacks,  who  had  set  off  before  we 
came." 

The  "bit  of  womanhood"  was  our  old  ac- 
quaintance Bessy  Cranage,  otherwise  Chad's 
Bess,  whose  large  red  cheeks  and  blowsy  person 
had  undergone  an  exaggeration  of  colour,  which, 
if  she  had  happened  to  be  a  heavenly  body, 
would  have  made  her  sublime.  Bessy,  I  am 
sorry  to  say,  had  taken  to  her  ear-rings  again 
since  Dinah's  departure,  and  was  otherwise 
decked  out  in  such  small  finery  as  she  could 
muster.     Anv  one  who  could  have  looked  into 


406  ADAM   BEDE 

poor  Bessy's  heart  would  have  seen  a  striking 
resemblance  between  her  little  hopes  and  anx- 
ieties and  Hetty's.  The  advantage,  perhaps, 
would  have  been  on  Bessy's  side  in  the  matter 
of  feeling.  But  then,  you  see,  they  were  so  very 
different  outside!  You  would  have  been  in- 
clined to  box  Bessy's  ears,  and  you  would  have 
longed  to  kiss  Hetty. 

Bessy  had  been  tempted  to  run  the  arduous 
race,  partly  from  mere  hoidenish  gayety,  partly 
because  of  the  prize.  Some  one  had  said  there 
were  to  be  cloaks  and  other  nice  clothes  for 
prizes,  and  she  approached  the  marquee,  fan- 
ning herself  with  her  handkerchief,  but  with  ex- 
ultation sparkling  in  her  round  eyes. 

"Here  is  the  prize  for  the  first  sack-race," 
said  Miss  Lydia,  taking  a  large  parcel  from  the 
table  where  the  prizes  were  laid,  and  giving  it 
to  Mrs.  Irwine  before  Bessy  came  up;  "an  ex- 
cellent grogram  gown  and  a  piece  of  flannel." 

"You  did  n't  think  the  winner  was  to  be  so 
young,  I  suppose,  aunt.'^"  said  Arthur. 
"Couldn't  you  find  something  else  for  this 
girl,  and  save  that  grim-looking  gown  for  one 
of  the  older  women  .^" 

"I  have  bought  nothing  but  what  is  useful  and 
substantial,"  said  Miss  Lydia,  adjusting  her  own 
lace ;  "I  should  not  think  of  encouraging  a  love 
of  finery  in  young  women  of  that  class.  I  have 
a  scarlet  cloak,  but  that  is  for  the  old  woman 
who  wins." 

This  speech  of  Miss  Lydia's  produced  rather 
a  mocking  expression  in  Mrs.  Irwine's  face  as 
she  looked  at  Arthur,  while  Bessy  came  up  and 
dropped  a  series  of  courtesies. 


THE   GAMES  407 

"This  Is  Bessy  Cranage,  mother,"  said  Mr. 
Irwine,  kindly,  "Chad  Cranage's  daughter. 
You  remember  Chad  Cranage,  the  black- 
smith.?" 

"Yes,  to  be  sure,"  said  Mrs.  Irwine.     "Well, 
Bessy,    here    Is    your    prize,  —  excellent    warm 
things  for  winter.     I  'm  sure  you  have  had  hard 
.  work  to  win  them  this  warm  day." 

Bessy's  lips  fell  as  she  saw  the  ugly,  heavy 
gown,  —  which  felt  so  hot  and  disagreeable,  too, 
on  this  July  day,  and  was  such  a  great,  ugly 
thing  to  carry.  She  dropped  her  courtesies 
again,  without  looking  up,  and  with  a  growing 
treraulousness  about  the  corners  of  her  mouth, 
and  then  turned  away. 

"Poor  girl,"  said  Arthur;  "I  think  she's  dis- 
appointed. I  wish  it  had  been  something  more 
to  her  taste." 

"She's  a  bold-looking  young  person,"  ob- 
served Miss  Lydia ;  "not  at  all  one  I  should  like 
to  encourage." 

Arthur  silently  resolved  that  he  would  make 
Bessy  a  present  of  money  before  the  day  was 
over,  that  she  might  buy  something  more  to  her 
mind ;  but  she,  not  aware  of  the  consolation  in 
store  for  her,  turned  out  of  the  open  space,  where 
she  was  visible  from  the  marquee,  and  throwing 
down  the  odious  bundle  under  a  tree,  began  to 
cry,  —  very  much  tittered  at  the  while  by  the 
small  boys.  In  this  situation  she  was  discried 
by  her  discreet  matronly  cousin,  who  lost  no 
time  in  coming  up,  having  just  given  the  baby 
into  her  husband's  charge. 

"What's  the  matter  wi'  ye.^^"  said  Bess  the 
matron,  taking  up  the  bundle  and  examining  it. 


408  ADAM   BEDE 

**  Ye'n  sweltered  yoursen,  I  reckon,  running  that 
fool's  race.  An'  here,  they'n  gi'en  you  lots  o' 
good  grogram  and  flannel,  as  should  ha'  been 
gi'en  by  good  rights  to  them  as  had  the  sense  to 
keep  away  from  such  foolery.  Ye  might  spare 
me  a  bit  o'  this  grogram  to  make  clothes  for  the 
lad,  —  ye  war  ne'er  ill-natured,  Bess ;  I  ne'er 
said  that  on  ye." 

"Ye  may  take  it  all,  for  what  I  care,"  said 
Bess  the  maiden,  with  a  pettish  movement,  be- 
ginning to  wipe  away  her  tears  and  recover 
herself. 

"Well,  I  could  do  wi'  't,  if  so  be  ye  want  to 
get  rid  on  't,"  said  the  disinterested  cousin,  walk- 
ing quickly  away  with  the  bundle,  lest  Chad's 
Bess  should  change  her  mind. 

But  that  bonny- cheeked  lass  was  blessed  with 
an  elasticity  of  spirits  that  secured  her  from  any 
rankling  grief ;  and  by  the  time  the  grand  climax 
of  the  donkey-race  came  on,  her  disappointment 
was  entirely  lost  in  the  delightful  excitement  of 
attempting  to  stimulate  the  last  donkey  by  hisses, 
while  the  boys  applied  the  argument  of  sticks. 
But  the  strength  of  the  donkey  mind  lies  in 
adopting  a  course  inversely  as  the  arguments 
urged,  which,  well  considered,  requires  as  great 
a  mental  force  as  the  direct  sequence;  and  the 
present  donkey  proved  the  first-rate  order  of  his 
intelligence  by  coming  to  a  dead  stand  still  just 
when  the  blows  were  thickest.  Great  was  the 
shouting  of  the  crowd,  radiant  the  grinning  of 
Bill  Downes,  the  stone- sawyer  and  the  fortunate 
rider  of  this  superior  beast,  which  stood  calm 
and  stiff-legged  in  the  midst  of  its  triumph. 

Arthur  himself  had  provided  the  prizes  for  the 


THE   GAMES  409 

men ;  and  Bill  was  made  happy  with  a  splendid 
pocket-knife,  supplied  with  blades  and  gimlets 
enough  to  make  a  man  at  home  on  a  desert 
island.  He  had  hardly  returned  from  the  mar- 
quee with  the  prize  in  his  hand,  when  it  began 
to  be  understood  that  Wiry  Ben  proposed  to 
amuse  the  company,  before  the  gentry  went  to 
dinner,  with  an  impromptu  and  gratuitous  per- 
formance, —  namely,  a  hornpipe,  the  main  idea 
of  which  was  doubtless  borrowed ;  but  this  was 
to  be  developed  by  the  dancer  in  so  peculiar  and 
complex  a  manner  that  no  one  could  deny  him 
the  praise  of  originality.  Wiry  Ben's  pride  in 
his  dancing  —  an  accomplishment  productive  of 
great  effect  at  the  yearly  Wake  —  had  needed 
only  slightly  elevating  by  an  extra  quantity  of 
good  ale,  to  convince  him  that  the  gentry  would 
be  very  much  struck  with  his  performance  of 
the  hornpipe;  and  he  had  been  decidedly  en- 
couraged in  this  idea  by  Joshua  Rann,  who  ob- 
served that  it  was  nothing  but  right  to  do  some- 
thing to  please  the  young  Squire,  in  return  for 
what  he  had  done  for  them.  You  will  be  the 
less  surprised  at  this  opinion  in  so  grave  a  per- 
sonage when  you  learn  that  Ben  had  requested 
Mr.  Rann  to  accompany  him  on  the  fiddle ;  and 
Joshua  felt  quite  sure  that  though  there  might 
not  be  much  in  the  dancing,  the  music  would 
make  up  for  it.  Adam  Bede,  who  was  present 
in  one  of  the  large  marquees,  where  the  plan  was 
being  discussed,  told  Ben  he  had  better  not  make 
a  fool  of  himself,  —  a  remark  which  at  once  fixed 
Ben's  determination ;  he  was  not  going  to  let 
anything  alone  because  Adam  Bede  turned  up 
his  nose  at  it. 


410  ADAM  BEDE 

"What's  this,  what's  this?"  said  old  Mr. 
Donnithorne.  "Is  it  something  you've  ar- 
ranged, Arthur?  Here's  the  clerk  coming  with 
his  fiddle,  and  a  smart  fellow  with  a  nosegay  in 
his  button-hole." 

"No,"  said  Arthur;  "I  know  nothing  about 
it.  By  Jove,  he's  going  to  dance!  It's  one  of 
the  carpenters,  —  I  forget  his  name  at  this 
moment." 

"It's  Ben  Cranage,  —  Wiry  Ben,  they  call 
him,"  said  Mr.  Irwine;  "rather  a  loose  fish,  I 
think.  Anne,  my  dear,  I  see  that  fiddle- scrap- 
ing is  too  much  for  you;  you're  getting  tired. 
Let  me  take  you  in  now,  that  you  may  rest  till 
dinner." 

Miss  Anne  rose  assentingly,  and  the  good 
brother  took  her  away,  while  Joshua's  prelimi- 
nary scrapings  burst  into  the  "White  Cockade," 
from  which  he  intended  to  pass  to  a  variety  of 
tunes,  by  a  series  of  transitions  which  his  good 
ear  really  taught  him  to  execute  with  some  skill. 
It  would  have  been  an  exasperating  fact  to  him, 
if  he  had  known  it,  that  the  general  attention 
was  too  thoroughly  absorbed  by  Ben's  dancing 
for  any  one  to  give  much  heed  to  the  music. 

Have  you  ever  seen  a  real  English  rustic  per- 
form a  solo  dance  ?  Perhaps  you  have  only  seen 
a  ballet  rustic,  smiling  like  a  merry  countryman 
in  crockery,  with  graceful  turns  of  the  haunch 
and  insinuating  movements  of  the  head.  That 
is  as  much  like  the  real  thing  as  the  "Bird 
Waltz"  is  like  the  song  of  birds.  Wiry  Ben 
never  smiled ;  he  looked  as  serious  as  a  dancing 
monkey,  —  as  serious  as  if  he  had  been  an  ex- 
perimental philosopher  ascertaining  in  his  own 


i  THE   GAMES  411 

person  the  amount  of  shaking  and  the  varieties 
of  angularity  that  could  be  given  to  the  human 
limbs. 

To  make  amends  for  the  abundant  laughter 
in  the  striped  marquee,  Arthur  clapped  his 
hands  continually  and  cried,  "Bravo!"  But 
Ben  had  one  admirer  whose  eyes  followed  his 
movements  with  a  fervid  gravity  that  equalled 
his  own.  It  was  Martin  Poyser,  who  was  seated 
on  a  bench,  with  Tommy  between  his  legs. 

"What  dost  think  o'  that.^"  he  said  to  his 
wife.  "He  goes  as  pat  to  the  music  as  if  he  was 
made  o'  clockwork.  I  used  to  be  a  pretty  good 
un  at  dancing  myself  when  I  was  lighter,  but  I 
could  niver  ha'  hit  it  just  to  th'  hair  like  that." 

"It's  little  matter  what  his  limbs  are,  to  my 
thinking,"  returned  Mrs.  Poyser.  "He's  empty 
enough  i'  the  upper  story,  or  he'd  niver  come 
jigging  an'  stamping  i'  that  way,  like  a  mad 
grasshopper,  for  the  gentry  to  look  at  him. 
They're  fit  to  die  wi'  laughing,  I  can  see." 

"Well,  well,  so  much  the  better,  it  amuses 
'em,"  said  Mr.  Poyser,  who  did  not  easily  take 
an  irritable  view  of  things.  "But  they  're  going 
away  now,  t'  have  their  dinner,  I  reckon.  We  '11 
move  about  a  bit,  shall  we  ?  and  see  what  Adam 
Bede  's  doing.  He 's  got  to  look  after  the  drink- 
ing and  things;  I  doubt  he  hasna  had  much 
fun." 


CHAPTER  V 

THE     DANCE 


ARTHUR  had  chosen  the  entrance- hall  for 
the  ball-room,  —  very  wisely,  for  no  other 
room  could  have  been  so  airy,  or  would 
have  had  the  advantage  of  the  wide  doors  open- 
ing into  the  garden,  as  well  as  a  ready  entrance 
into  the  other  rooms.  To  be  sure,  a  stone  floor 
was  not  the  pleasantest  to  dance  on;  but  then, 
most  of  the  dancers  had  known  what  it  was 
to  enjoy  a  Christmas  dance  on  kitchen  quarries. 
It  was  one  of  those  entrance- halls  which  make 
the  surrounding  rooms  look  like  closets,  —  with 
stucco  angels,  trumpets,  and  flower- wreaths  on 
the  lofty  ceiling,  and  great  medallions  of  mis- 
cellaneous heroes  on  the  walls,  alternating  with 
statues  in  niches.  Just  the  sort  of  place  to  be 
ornamented  well  with  green  boughs,  and  Mr. 
Craig  had  been  proud  to  show  his  taste  and  his 
hot-house  plants  on  the  occasion.  The  broad 
steps  of  the  stone  staircase  were  covered  with 
cushions  to  serve  as  seats  for  the  children,  who 
were  to  stay  till  half- past  nine  with  the  servant- 
maids,  to  see  the  dancing ;  and  as  this  dance  was 
confined  to  the  chief  tenants,  there  was  abundant 
room  for  every  one.  The  lights  were  charm- 
ingly disposed  in  coloured- paper  lamps,  high  up 
among  green  boughs ;  and  the  farmers'  wives 
and  daughters,  as  they  peeped  in,  believed  no 
scene  could  be  more  splendid.     They  knew  now 


THE  DANCE  413 

quite  well  in  what  sort  of  rooms  the  king  and 
queen  lived;  and  their  thoughts  glanced  with 
some  pity  towards  cousins  and  acquaintances 
who  had  not  this  fine  opportunity  of  knowing 
how  things  went  on  in  the  great  world.  The 
lamps  were  already  lit,  though  the  sun  had  not 
long  set,  and  there  was  that  calm  light  out  of 
doors  in  which  we  seem  to  see  all  objects  more 
distinctly  than  in  the  broad  day. 

It  was  a  pretty  scene  outside  the  house.  The 
farmers  and  their  families  were  moving  about 
the  lawn,  among  the  flowers  and  shrubs,  or  along 
the  broad  straight  road  leading  from  the  east 
front,  where  a  carpet  of  mossy  grass  spread  on 
each  side,  studded  here  and  there  with  a  dark 
flat-boughed  cedar,  or  a  grand  pyramidal  fir 
sweeping  the  ground  with  its  branches,  all  tipped 
with  a  fringe  of  paler  green.  The  groups  oi  cot- 
tagers in  the  park  were  gradually  diminishing; 
the  young  ones  being  attracted  towards  the 
lights  that  were  beginning  to  gleam  from  the 
windows  of  the  gallery  in  the  abbey,  which  was 
to  be  their  dancing- room,  and  some  of  the  sober 
elder  ones  thinking  it  time  to  go  home  quietly. 
One  of  these  was  Lisbeth  Bede ;  and  Setli  went 
with  her,  — -  not  from  filial  attention  only,  for  his 
conscience  would  not  let  him  join  in  dancing. 
It  had  been  rather  a  melancholy  day  to  Seth. 
Dinah  had  never  been  more  constantly  present 
with  him  than  in  this  scene,  where  everything 
was  so  unlike  her.  He  saw  her  all  the  more 
vividly  after  looking  at  the  thoughtless  faces  and 
gay- coloured  dresses  of  the  young  women,  — 
just  as  one  feels  the  beauty  and  the  greatness  of 
a  pictured  Madonna  the  more,  when  it  has  been 


414  ADAM  BEDE 

for  a  moment  screened  from  us  by  a  vulgar  head 
in  a  bonnet.  But  this  presence  of  Dinah  in  his 
mind  only  helped  him  to  bear  the  better  with  his 
mother's  mood,  which  had  been  becoming  more 
and  more  querulous  for  the  last  hour.  Poor 
Lisbeth  was  suffering  from  a  strange  conflict  of 
feelings.  Her  joy  and  pride  in  the  honour  paid 
to  her  darling  son  Adam  was  beginning  to  be 
worsted  in  the  conflict  with  the  jealousy  and 
fretfulness  which  had  revived  when  Adam  came 
to  tell  her  that  Captain  Donnithorne  desired  him 
to  join  the  dancers  in  the  hall.  Adam  was  get- 
ting more  and  more  out  of  her  reach ;  she  wished 
all  the  old  troubles  back  again,  for  then  it  mat- 
tered more  to  Adam  what  his  mother  said  and 
did. 

"Eh,  it's  fine  talkin'  o'  dancin',"  she  said, 
*'  an'  thy  father  not  a  five  week  in  's  grave.  An' 
I  wish  I  war  there  too,  istid  o'  bein'  left  to  take 
up  merrier  folks's  room  above  ground." 

"Nay,  don't  look  at  it  i'  that  way,  mother," 
said  Adam,  who  was  determined  to  be  gentle  to 
her  to-day.  "I  don't  mean  to  dance,  —  I  shall 
only  look  on.  And  since  the  Captain  wishes 
me  to  be  there,  it  'ud  look  as  if  I  thought  I  knew 
better  than  him  to  say  as  I'd  rather  not  stay. 
And  thee  know'st  how  he's  behaved  to  me 
to-day." 

"Eh,  thee  't  do  as  thee  lik'st,  for  thy  old 
mother's  got  no  right  t'  hinder  thee.  She's 
nought  but  th'  old  husk,  and  thee  'st  slipped 
away  from  her,  like  the  ripe  nut." 

"Well,  mother,"  said  Adam,  "I'll  go  and  tell 
the  Captain  as  it  hurts  thy  feelings  for  me  to 
stay,  a^d  I'd  rather  go  home  upo'  that  account; 


THE   DANCE  415 

he  won't  take  it  ill  then,  I  dare  say,  and  I  'm  will- 
ing." He  said  this  with  some  effort,  for  he  really 
longed  to  be  near  Hetty  this  evening. 

"Nay,  nay,  I  wonna  ha'  thee  do  that,  —  the 
young  Squire  'uU  be  angered.  Go  an'  do  what 
thee  't  ordered  to  do,  an'  me  and  Seth  'ull  go 
whome.  I  know  it's  a  grit  honour  for  thee  to 
be  so  looked  on,  —  an'  who 's  to  be  prouder  on 
it  nor  thy  mother  ?  Hadna  she  the  cumber  o' 
rearin'  thee,  an'  doin'  for  thee  all  these  'ears  ?  " 

"Well,  good-by,  then,  mother, — good-by, 
lad,  —  remember  Gyp  when  you  get  home," 
said  Adam,  turning  away  towards  the  gate  of  the 
pleasure-grounds,  where  he  hoped  he  might  be 
able  to  join  the  Poysers,  for  he  had  been  so  oc- 
cupied throughout  the  afternoon  that  he  had 
had  no  time  to  speak  to  Hetty.  His  eye  soon 
detected  a  distant  group,  which  he  knew  to  be 
the  right  one,  returning  to  the  house  along  the 
broad  gravel  road ;  and  he  hastened  on  to  meet 
them. 

"Why,  Adam,  I'm  glad  to  get  sight  on  y' 
again,"  said  Mr.  Poyser,  who  was  carrying  Totty 
on  his  arm.  "You 're  going  t'  have  a  bit  o'  fun, 
I  hope,  now  your  work's  all  done.  And  here's 
Hetty  has  promised  no  end  o'  partners,  an'  I  've 
just  been  askin'  her  if  she'd  agreed  to  dance  wi' 
you,  an'  she  says  no." 

"Well,  I  didn't  think  o'  dancing  to-night," 
said  Adam,  already  tempted  to  change  his  mind, 
as  he  looked  at  Hetty. 

"Nonsense!"  said  Mr.  Poyser.  "Why, 
everybody's  goin'  to  dance  to-night,  all  but  tli' 
old  Squire  and  Mrs.  Irwine.  Mrs.  Best's  been 
tellin'  us  as  Miss  Lyddy  and  Miss  Irwine  'ull 


416  ADAM   BEDE 

dance,  an'  the  young  Squire  'ull  pick  my  wife 
for  his  first  partner,  t'  open  the  ball;  so  she'll 
be  forced  to  dance,  though  she 's  laid  by  ever  sin' 
the  Christmas  afore  the  little  un  was  born.  You 
canna  for  shame  stand  still,  Adam,  an'  you  a 
fine  young  fellow,  and  can  dance  as  well  as 
anybody." 

"Nay,  nay,"  said  Mrs.  Poyser,  *'it  'ud  be  un- 
becomin'.  I  know  the  dancin'  's  nonsense;  but 
if  you  stick  at  everything  because  it's  nonsense, 
you  wonna  go  far  i'  this  life.  When  your  broth's 
ready-made  for  you,  you  mun  swallow  the 
thickenin',  or  else  let  the  broth  alone." 

"Then  if  Hetty  'ull  dance  with  me,"  said 
Adam,  yielding  either  to  Mrs.  Poyser' s  argu- 
ment or  to  something  else,  "I'll  dance  which- 
ever dance  she's  free." 

"I've  got  no  partner  for  the  fourth  dance," 
said  Hetty;  "I'll  dance  that  with  you,  if  you 
like." 

"Ah,"  said  Mr.  Poyser,  "but  you  mun  dance 
the  first  dance,  Adam,  else  it'll  look  partic'ler. 
There 's  plenty  o'  nice  partners  to  pick  an'  choose 
from,  an'  it's  hard  for  the  gells  when  the  men 
stan'  by  and  don't  ask  'em." 

Adam  felt  the  justice  of  Mr.  Poyser's  observa- 
tion. It  would  not  do  for  him  to  dance  \\dth  no 
one  besides  Hetty ;  and  remembering  that  Jona- 
than Burge  had  some  reason  to  feel  hurt  to-day, 
he  resolved  to  ask  Miss  Mary  to  dance  with  him 
the  first  dance,  if  she  had  no  other  partner. 

"There's  the  big  clock  strikin'  eight,"  said 
Mr.  Poyser;  "we  must  make  haste  in  now,  else 
the  Squire  and  the  ladies  'ull  be  in  afore  us,  an' 
that  wouldna  look  well." 


THE   DANCE  417 

When  they  had  entered  the  hall,  and  the  three 
children  under  Molly's  charge  had  been  seated 
on  the  stairs,  the  folding-doors  of  the  drawing- 
room  were  thrown  open,  and  Arthur  entered  in 
his  regimentals,  leading  Mrs.  Irwine  to  a  carpet- 
covered  dais  ornamented  with  hot- house  plants, 
where  she  and  Miss  Anne  were  to  be  seated  with 
old  Mr.  Donnithorne,  that  they  might  look  on 
at  the  dancing,  like  the  kings  and  queens  in 
the  plays.  Arthur  had  put  on  his  uniform  to 
please  the  tenants,  he  said,  who  thought  as 
much  of  his  militia  dignity  as  if  it  had  been 
an  elevation  to  the  premiership.  He  had  not 
the  least  objection  to  gratify  them  in  that 
way ;  his  uniform  was  very  advantageous  to  his 
figure. 

The  old  Squire,  before  sitting  down,  walked 
round  the  hall  to  greet  the  tenants  and  make 
polite  speeches  to  the  wives.  He  was  alw^ays 
polite ;  but  the  farmers  had  found  out,  after  long 
puzzling,  that  this  polish  was  one  of  the  signs  of 
hardness.  It  was  observed  that  he  gave  his 
most  elaborate  civility  to  Mrs.  Poyser  to-night, 
inquiring  particularly  about  her  health,  recom- 
mending her  to  strengthen  herself  with  cold 
water  as  he  did,  and  avoid  all  drugs.  Mrs.  Poy- 
ser courtesied  and  thanked  him  with  great  self- 
command,  but  when  he  had  passed  on  she 
whispered  to  her  husband,  "  I  '11  lay  my  life  he 's 
brewin'  some  nasty  turn  against  us.  Old  Harry 
doesna  wag  his  tail  so  for  nothin'." 

Mr.  Poyser  had  no  time  to  answer,  for  now 
Arthur  came  up  and  said,  "Mrs.  Poyser,  I'm 
come  to  request  the  favour  of  your  hand  for  the 
first  dance;   and,  Mr.  Poyser,  you  must  let  me 

VOL.  1—27 


418  ADAM   BEDE 

take  you  to  my  aunt,  for  she  claims  you  as  her 
partner." 

The  wife's  pale  cheek  flushed  with  a  nervous 
sense  of  unwonted  honour  as  Arthur  led  her  to 
the  top  of  the  room ;  but  Mr.  Poyser,  to  whom 
an  extra  glass  had  restored  his  youthful  confi- 
dence in  his  good  looks  and  good  dancing, 
walked  along  with  them  quite  proudly,  secretly 
flattering  himself  that  Miss  Lydia  had  never  had 
a  partner  in  her  life  who  could  lift  her  off  the 
ground  as  he  would.  In  order  to  balance  the 
honours  given  to  the  two  parishes,  Miss  Irwine 
danced  with  Luke  Britton,  the  largest  Broxton 
farmer,  and  Mr.  Gawaine  led  out  Mrs.  Britton. 
Mr.  Irwine,  after  seating  his  sister  Anne,  had 
gone  to  the  abbey  gallery,  as  he  had  agreed  with 
Arthur  beforehand,  to  see  how  the  merriment 
of  the  cottagers  was  prospering.  Meanwhile  all 
the  less  distinguished  couples  had  taken  their 
places.  Hetty  was  led  out  by  the  inevitable  Mr. 
Craig,  and  Mary  Burge  by  Adam ;  and  now  the 
music  struck  up,  and  the  glorious  country- dance, 
best  of  all  dances,  began. 

Pity  it  was  not  a  boarded  floor!  Then  the 
rhythmic  stamping  of  the  thick  shoes  would  have 
been  better  than  any  drums.  That  merry 
stamping,  that  gracious  nodding  of  the  head, 
that  waving  bestowal  of  the  hand,  —  where 
can  we  see  them  now.^  That  simple  dancing 
of  well- covered  matrons,  laying  aside  for  an 
hour  the  cares  of  house  and  dairy,  remembering 
but  not  affecting  youth,  not  jealous  but  proud 
of  the  young  maidens  by  their  side,  —  that  holi- 
day sprightliness  of  portly  husbands  paying  little 
compliments  to  their  wives,  as  if  their  courting 


THE   DANCE  419 

days  were  come  again,  —  those  lads  and  lasses 
a  little  confused  and  awkward  with  their  part- 
ners, having  nothing  to  say,  —  it  would  be  a 
pleasant  variety  to  see  all  that  sometimes,  in- 
stead of  low  dresses  and  large  skirts,  and  scan- 
ning glances  exploring  costumes,  and  languid 
men  in  lackered  boots  smiling  with  double 
meaning. 

There  was  but  one  thing  to  mar  Martin  Poy- 
ser's  pleasure  in  this  dance :  it  was  that  he  was 
always  in  close  contact  with  Luke  Britton,  that 
slovenly  farmer.  He  thought  of  throwing  a 
little  glazed  coldness  into  his  eye  in  the  crossing 
of  his  hands ;  but  then,  as  Miss  Irwine  was  op- 
posite to  him  instead  of  the  offensive  Luke,  he 
might  freeze  the  wrong  person;  so  he  gave  his 
face  up  to  hilarity,  unchilled  by  moral  judg- 
ments. 

How  Hetty's  heart  beat  as  Arthur  approached 
her !  He  had  hardly  looked  at  her  to-day ;  now 
he  must  take  her  hand.  Would  he  press  it  ? 
would  he  look  at  her.^  She  thought  she  would 
cry  if  he  gave  her  no  sign  of  feeling.  Now  he 
was  there,  —  he  had  taken  her  hand,  —  yes,  he 
was  pressing  it.  Hetty  turned  pale  as  she 
looked  up  at  him  for  an  instant  and  met  his 
eyes,  before  the  dance  carried  him  away.  That 
pale  look  came  upon  Arthur  like  the  beginning 
of  a  dull  pain,  which  clung  to  him,  though  he 
must  dance  and  smile  and  joke  all  the  same. 
Hetty  would  look  so,  when  he  told  her  what  he 
had  to  tell  her;  and  he  should  never  be  able  to 
bear  it,  —  he  should  be  a  fool  and  give  way 
again.  Hetty's  look  did  not  really  mean  so 
much  as  he  thought;   it  was  only  the  sign  of  a 


420  ADAM  BEDE 

struggle  between  the  desire  for  him  to  notice  her, 
and  the  dread  lest  she  should  betray  the  desire 
to  others.  But  Hetty's  face  had  a  language  that 
transcended  her  feelings.  There  are  faces  which 
Nature  charges  with  a  meaning  and  pathos  not 
belonging  to  the  simple  human  soul  that  flutters 
beneath  them,  but  speaking  the  joys  and  sorrows 
of  foregone  generations,  —  eyes  that  tell  of  deep 
love  which  doubtless  has  been  and  is  somewhere, 
but  not  paired  with  these  eyes,  —  perhaps  paired 
with  pale  eyes  that  can  say  nothing;  just  as  a 
national  language  may  be  instinct  with  poetry 
unfelt  by  the  lips  that  use  it.  That  look  of 
Hetty's  oppressed  Arthur  with  a  dread  which 
yet  had  something  of  a  terrible  unconfessed  de- 
light in  it,  that  she  loved  him  too  well.  There 
was  a  hard  task  before  him,  for  at  that  mo- 
ment he  felt  he  would  have  given  up  three 
years  of  his  youth  for  the  happiness  of  aban- 
doning himself  without  remorse  to  his  passion 
for  Hetty. 

These  were  the  incongruous  thoughts  in  his 
mind  as  he  led  Mrs.  Poyser,  who  was  panting 
with  fatigue,  and  secretly  resolving  that  neither 
judge  nor  jury  should  force  her  to  dance  an- 
other dance,  to  take  a  quiet  rest  in  the  dining- 
room,  where  supper  was  laid  out  for  the  guests 
to  come  and  take  it  as  they  chose. 

"I've  desired  Hetty  to  remember  as  she's  got 
to  dance  wi'  you,  sir,"  said  the  good,  innocent 
woman ;  "for  she 's  so  thoughtless,  she 'd  be  like 
enough  to  go  an'  engage  herself  for  ivery  dance : 
so  I  told  her  not  to  promise  too  many." 

"Thank  you,  Mrs.  Poyser,"  said  Arthur,  not 
without  a  twinge.     "Now  sit  down  in  this  com- 


THE   DANCE  421 

fortable  chair,  and  here  is  Mills  ready  to  give 
you  what  you  would  like  best." 

He  hurried  away  to  seek  another  matronly 
"  partner,  for  due  honour  must  be  paid  to  the  mar- 
ried women  before  he  asked  any  of  the  young 
ones ;  and  the  country- dances,  and  the  stamping, 
and  the  gracious  nodding,  and  the  waving  of  the 
hands  went  on  joyously. 

At  last  the  time  had  come  for  the  fourth  dance, 
—  longed  for  by  the  strong,  grave  x\dam,  as  if  he 
had  been  a  delicate-handed  youth  of  eighteen; 
for  we  are  all  very  much  alike  when  we  are  in 
our  first  love;  and  Adam  had  hardly  ever 
touched  Hetty's  hand  for  more  than  a  transient 
greeting,  —  had  never  danced  with  her  but  once 
before.  His  eyes  had  followed  her  eagerly  to- 
night in  spite  of  himself,  and  had  taken  in  deeper 
draughts  of  love.  He  thought  she  behaved  so 
prettily,  so  quietly ;  she  did  not  seem  to  be  flirt- 
ing at  all,  she  smiled  less  than  usual ;  there  was 
almost  a  sweet  sadness  about  her.  "God  bless 
her!"  he  said  inwardly;  "I'd  make  her  life  a 
happy  un,  if  a  strong  arm  to  work  for  her,  and 
a  heart  to  love  her,  could  do  it." 

And  then  there  stole  over  him  delicious 
thoughts  of  coming  home  from  work,  and  draw- 
ing Hetty  to  his  side,  and  feeling  her  cheek  softly 
pressed  against  his,  till  he  forgot  where  he  was, 
and  the  music  and  the  tread  of  feet  might  have 
been  the  falling  of  rain  and  the  roaring  of  the 
wind,  for  what  he  knew. 

But  now  the  third  dance  was  ended,  and  he 
might  go  up  to  her  and  claim  her  hand.  She 
was  at  the  far  end  of  the  hall  near  the  staircase, 
whispering  with  Molly,  who  had  just  given  the 


422  ADAM   BEDE 

sleeping  Totty  into  her  arms,  before  running  to 
fetch  shawls  and  bonnets  from  the  landing.  Mrs. 
Poyser  had  taken  the  two  boys  away  into  the 
dining-room  to  give  them  some  cake  before  they 
went  home  in  the  cart  with  grandfather,  and 
Molly  was  to  follow  as  fast  as  possible. 

"Let  me  hold  her,"  said  Adam,  as  Molly 
turned  upstairs;  "the  children  are  so  heavy 
when  they're  asleep." 

Hetty  was  glad  of  the  relief ;  for  to  hold  Totty 
in  her  arms,  standing,  was  not  at  all  a  pleasant 
variety  to  her.  But  this  second  transfer  had  the 
unfortunate  effect  of  rousing  Totty,  who  was  not 
behind  any  child  of  her  age  in  peevishness  at  an 
unseasonable  awaking.  While  Hetty  was  in 
the  act  of  placing  her  in  Adam's  arms,  and  had 
not  yet  withdrawn  her  own,  Totty  opened  her 
eyes,  and  forthwith  fought  out  with  her  left  fist 
at  Adam's  arm,  and  with  her  right  caught  at  the 
string  of  brown  beads  round  Hetty's  neck.  The 
locket  leaped  out  from  her  frock,  and  the  next  mo- 
ment the  string  was  broken,  and  Hetty,  helpless, 
saw  beads  and  locket  scattered  wide  on  the  floor. 

"My  locket,  my  locket!"  she  said,  in  a  loud, 
frightened  whisper  to  Adam;  "never  mind  the 
beads." 

Adam  had  already  seen  where  the  locket  fell, 
for  it  had  attracted  his  glance  as  it  leaped  out 
of  her  frock.  It  had  fallen  on  the  raised  wooden 
dais  where  the  band  sat,  not  on  the  stone  floor; 
and  as  Adam  picked  it  up,  he  saw  the  glass  with 
the  dark  and  light  locks  of  hair  under  it.  It  had 
fallen  that  side  upwards,  so  the  glass  was  not 
broken.  He  turned  it  over  on  his  hand,  and  saw 
the  enamelled  gold  back. 


THE   DANCE  423 

"It  is  n*t  hurt,"  he  said,  as  he  held  it  towards 
Hetty,  who  was  unable  to  take  it  because  both 
her  hands  were  occupied  with  Totty. 

"Oh,  it  doesn't  matter,  I  don't  mind  about 
it,"  said  Hetty,  who  had  been  pale  and  was  now 
red. 

"Not  matter?"  said  Adam,  gravely.  *'You 
seemed  very  frightened  about  it.  I  '11  hold  it  till 
you're  ready  to  take  it,"  he  added,  quietly  clos- 
ing his  hand  over  it,  that  she  might  not  think  he 
wanted  to  look  at  it  again. 

By  this  time  Molly  had  come  with  bonnet  and 
shawl;  and  as  soon  as  she  had  taken  Totty, 
Adam  placed  the  locket  in  Hetty's  hand.  She 
took  it  with  an  air  of  indifference,  and  put  it  in 
her  pocket;  in  her  heart  vexed  and  angry  with 
Adam,  because  he  had  seen  it,  but  determined 
now  that  she  would  show  no  more  signs  of 
agitation. 

"See,"  she  said,  "they're  taking  their  places 
to  dance;  let  us  go." 

Adam  assented  silently.  A  puzzled  alarm  had 
taken  possession  of  him.  Had  Hetty  a  lover 
he  did  n't  know  of  ?  —  for  none  of  her  relations, 
he  was  sure,  would  give  her  a  locket  like  that; 
and  none  of  her  admirers,  with  whom  he  was 
acquainted,  was  in  the  position  of  an  accepted 
lover,  as  the  giver  of  that  locket  must  be.  Adam 
was  lost  in  the  utter  impossibility  of  finding  any 
person  for  his  fears  to  alight  on :  he  could  only 
leel  with  a  terrible  pang  that  there  was  some- 
thing in  Hetty's  life  unknown  to  him  ;  that  w^hile 
he  had  been  rocking  himself  in  the  hope  that 
she  would  come  to  love  him,  she  was  already 
loving  another.     The  pleasure  of  the  dance  with 


424  ADAM   BEDE 

Hetty  was  gone;  his  eyes,  when  they  rested  on 
her,  had  an  uneasy  questioning  expression  in 
them ;  he  could  think  of  nothing  to  say  to  her ; 
and  she,  too,  was  out  of  temper  and  disinclined 
to  speak.  They  were  both  glad  when  the  dance 
was  ended. 

Adam  was  determined  to  stay  no  longer;  no 
one  wanted  him,  and  no  one  would  notice  if  he 
slipped  away.  As  soon  as  he  got  out  of  doors, 
he  began  to  walk  at  his  habitual  rapid  pace, 
hurrying  along  without  knowing  why,  busy  with 
the  painful  thought  that  the  memory  of  this  day, 
so  full  of  honour  and  promise  to  him,  was 
poisoned  forever.  Suddenly,  when  he  was  far 
on  through  the  Chase,  he  stopped,  startled  by 
a  flash  of  reviving  hope.  After  all,  he  might  be 
a  fool,  making  a  great  misery  out  of  a  trifle. 
Hetty,  fond  of  finery  as  she  was,  might  have 
bought  the  thing  herself.  It  looked  too  expen- 
sive for  that,  —  it  looked  like  the  things  on  white 
satin  in  the  great  jeweller's  shop  at  Rosseter. 
But  Adam  had  very  imperfect  notions  of  the 
value  of  such  things,  and  he  thought  it  could 
certainly  not  cost  more  than  a  guinea.  Perhaps 
Hetty  had  had  as  much  as  that  in  Christmas 
boxes,  and  there  was  no  knowing  but  she  might 
have  been  childish  enough  to  spend  it  in  that 
way;  she  was  such  a  young  thing,  and  she 
could  n't  help  loving  finery !  But  then,  why 
had  she  been  so  frightened  about  it  at  first,  and 
changed  colour  so,  and  afterwards  pretended 
not  to  care  ?  Oh,  that  was  because  she  was 
ashamed  of  his  seeing  that  she  had  such  a  smart 
thing,  —  she  was  conscious  that  it  was  wrong 
for  her  to  spend  her  money  on  it,  and  she  knew 


THE   DANCE  425 

that  Adam  disapproved   of  finery.     It  was  a 

f)roof  she  cared  about  what  he  Uked  and  dis- 
iked.  She  must  have  thought  from  his  silence 
and  gravity  afterwards  that  he  was  very  much 
displeased  with  her,  that  he  was  inclined  to  be 
harsh  and  severe  towards  her  foibles.  And  as 
he  walked  on  more  quietly,  chewing  the  cud  of 
this  new  hope,  his  only  uneasiness  was  that  he 
had  behaved  in  a  way  which  might  chill  Hetty's 
feeling  towards  him.  For  this  last  view  of  the 
matter  must  be  the  true  one.  How  could  Hetty 
have  an  accepted  lover,  quite  unknown  to  him  ? 
She  was  never  away  from  her  uncle's  house  for 
more  than  a  day;  she  could  have  no  acquaint- 
ances that  did  not  come  there,  and  no  intima- 
cies unknown  to  her  uncle  and  aunt.  It  would 
be  folly  to  believe  that  the  locket  was  given  to 
her  by  a  lover.  The  little  ring  of  dark  hair  he 
felt  sure  was  her  own ;  he  could  form  no  guess 
about  the  light  hair  under  it,  for  he  had  not  seen 
it  very  distinctly.  It  might  be  a  bit  of  her 
father's  or  mother's,  who  had  died  when  she 
was  a  child,  and  she  would  naturally  put  a  bit 
of  her  own  along  with  it. 

And  so  Adam  went  to  bed  comforted,  having 
woven  for  himself  an  ingenious  web  of  proba- 
bilities, —  the  surest  screen  a  wise  man  can 
place  between  himself  and  the  truth.  His  last 
waking  thoughts  melted  into  a  dream  that  he 
was  with  Hetty  again  at  the  Hall  Farm,  and 
that  he  was  asking  her  to  forgive  him  for  being 
so  cold  and  silent. 

And  while  he  was  dreaming  this,  Arthur  was 
leading  Hetty  to  the  dance,  and  saying  to  her  in 
low  hurried  tones,  "I  shall  be  in  the  wood  the 


/ 


426  ADAM   BEDE 

day  after  to-morrow  at  seven ;  come  as  early  as 
you  can."  And  Hetty's  foolish  joys  and  hopes, 
which  had  flown  away  for  a  little  space,  scared 
by  a  mere  nothing,  now  all  came  fluttering  back, 
unconscious  of  the  real  peril.  She  was  happy 
for  the  first  time  this  long  day,  and  wished  that 
dance  would  last  for  hours.  Arthur  wished  it 
too;  it  was  the  last  weakness  he  meant  to  in- 
dulge in;  and  a  man  never  lies  with  more  de- 
licious langour  under  the  influence  of  a  passion, 
than  when  he  has  persuaded  himself  that  he 
shall  subdue  it  to-morrow. 

But  Mrs.  Poyser's  wishes  were  quite  the  re- 
verse of  this,  for  her  mind  was  filled  with  dreary 
forebodings  as  to  the  retardation  of  to-morrow 

rt        1  1 

morning's  cheese  in  consequence  oi  these  late 
hours.  Now  that  Hetty  had  done  her  duty  and 
danced  one  dance  with  the  young  Squire,  Mr. 
Poyser  must  go  out  and  see  if  the  cart  was  come 
back  to  fetch  them,  for  it  was  half-past  ten 
o'clock;  and  notwithstanding  a  mild  suggestion 
on  his  part  that  it  would  be  bad  manners  for 
them  to  be  the  first  to  go,  Mrs.  Poyser  was  reso- 
lute on  the  point,  "manners  or  no  manners." 

"What!  going  already,  Mrs.  Poyser.^"  said 
old  Mr.  Donnithorne,  as  she  came  to  courtesy 
and  take  leave;  "I  thought  we  should  not  part 
with  any  of  our  guests  till  eleven.  Mrs,  Irwine 
and  I,  who  are  elderly  people,  think  of  sitting 
out  the  dance  till  then." 

"Oh,  your  honour,  it's  all  right  and  proper 
for  gentlefolks  to  stay  up  by  candle-light,  — 
they've  got  no  cheese  on  their  minds.  We're 
late  enough  as  it  is,  an'  there's  no  lettin'  the 
cows  know  as  they  must  n't  want  to  be  milked 


THE  DANCE  427 

so  early  to-morrow  mornin'.  So,  if  you  '11  please 
t'  excuse  us,  we'll  take  our  leave." 

"Eh!"  she  said  to  her  husband,  as  they  set 
off  in  the  cart,  "I'd  sooner  ha'  brewin'  day  and 
washin'  day  together  than  one  o'  these  pleasurin' 
days.  There's  no  work  so  tirin'  as  danglin' 
about  an'  starin'  an'  not  rightly  knowin'  what 
you  're  goin'  to  do  next ;  and  keepin'  your  face 
i'  smilin'  order  like  a  grocer  o'  market-day  for 
fear  people  shouldna  think  you  civil  enough. 
An'  you've  nothing  to  show  for  't  when  it's 
done,  if  it  is  n't  a  y allow  face  wi'  eatin'  things  as 
disagree." 

"Nay,  nay,"  said  Mr.  Poyser,  who  was  in  his 
merriest  mood,  and  felt  that  he  had  had  a  great 
day,  "a  bit  o'  pleasuring  's  good  for  thee  some- 
times. An'  thee  danc'st  as  well  as  any  of  'em, 
for  I'll  back  thee  against  all  the  wives  i'  the 
parish  for  a  light  foot  an'  ankle.  An'  it  was  a 
great  honour  for  the  young  Squire  to  ask  thee 
first,  —  I  reckon  it  was  because  I  sat  at  th'  head 
o'  the  table  an'  made  the  speech.  An'  Hetty 
too,  —  she  never  had  such  a  partner  before,  — 
a  fine  young  gentleman  in  reg'mentals.  It'll 
serve  you  to  talk  on,  Hetty,  when  you  're  an  old 
woman,  —  how  you  danced  wi'  th'  young  Squire 
the  day  he  come  o'  age." 


END   OF   VOL.    I   ADAM   BEDE 


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